LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


L     31822016024556 


Central  University  Library 

University  of  California,  San  Diego 
Note:  This  item  is  subject  to  recall  after  two  weeks. 

Date  Due 


JUL  29  1993 


Cl  39  (1/91) 


UCSD  Lib. 


C/  « 


H  TRovel 


WILKIE    COLLINS 

AUTHOR  OP 

'MAN  AND  WIFE"  "TUB  WOMAN  IN  WHITE"  " THE  MOONSTONE" 
"ARMADALE"  "NO  NAME"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER    k    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK  AND  LONDON 

1899 


POOR    MISS    FINCH. 


PART   THE    FIRST. 

CHAPTER  THE  FIRST. 

MADAME   PRATOLUNGO  PRESENTS  HERSELF. 

You  are  here  invited  to  read  the  story  of  an  Event  which 
occurred  some  years  since  in  an  out-of-the-way  corner  of  En- 
gland. 

The  persons  principally  concerned  in  the  Event  are — a 
blind  girl,  two  (twin)  brothers,  a  skilled  surgeon,  and  a  curious 
foreign  Avoman.  I  am  the  curious  foreign  woman.  And  I 
take  it  on  myself — for  reasons  which  will  presently  appear 
— to  tell  the  story. 

So  far  we  understand  each  other.  Good.  I  may  make 
myself  known  to  you  as  briefly  as  I  can. 

I  am  Madame  Pratolungo — widow  of  that  celebrated  South 
American  patriot,  Doctor  Pratolungo.  I  am  French  by  birth. 
Before  I  married  the  Doctor  I  went  through  many  vicissi- 
tudes in  my  own  country.  They  ended  in  leaving  me  (at 
an  age  which  is  of  no  consequence  to  any  body)  with  some 
experience  of  the  world,  with  a  cultivated  musical  talent  on 
the  piano-forte,  and  with  a  comfortable  little  fortune  unex- 
pectedly bequeathed  to  me  by  a  relative  of  my  dear  dead 
mother  (which  fortune  I  shared  with  good  Papa  and  with 
my  younger  sisters).  To  these  qualifications  I  added  another, 
the  most  precious  of  all, when  I  married  the  Doctor — namely, 
a  strong  infusion  of  ultra-liberal  principles.  Vice  la  Jtt- 
publiqne  ! 

Some  people  do  one  thing,  and  some  do  another,  in  the 
way  of  celebrating  the  event  of  their  marriage.  Having  be- 
come man  and  wife,  Doctor  Pratolungo  and  I  took  ship  to 


8  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

Central  America,  and  devoted  our  honey-moon,  in  those  dis- 
turbed districts,  to  the  sacred  duty  of  destroying  tyrants. 

Ah  !  the  vital  air  of  my  noble  husband  was  the  air  of 
revolutions.  From  his  youth  upward  he  had  followed  the 
glorious  profession  of  Patriot.  Wherever  the  people  of  the 
Southern  New  World  rose  and  declared  their  independence 
— and,  in  my  time,  that  fervent  population  did  nothing  else 
— there  was  the  Doctor  self-devoted  on  the  altar  of  his 
adopted  country.  He  had  been  fifteen  times  exiled,  and 
condemned  to  death  in  his  absence,  when  I  met  with  him  in 
Paris — the  picture  of  heroic  poverty,  with  a  brown  complex- 
ion and  one  lame  leg.  Who  could  avoid  falling  in  love  with 

Zj  O 

such  a  man?  I  was  proud  when  he  proposed  to  devote  me 
on  the  altar  of  his  adopted  country,  as  well  as  himself — me 
and  my  money.  For,  alas!  every  thing  is  expensive  in  this 
world,  including  the  destruction  of  tyrants  and  the  saving 
of  Freedom.  All  my  money  went  in  helping  the  sacred 
cause  of  the  people.  Dictators  and  filibusters  flourished  in 
spite  of  us.  Before  we  had  been  a  year  married  the  Doctor 
had  to  fly  (for  the  sixteenth  time)  to  escape  being  tried  for 
his  life.  My  husband  condemned  to  death  in  his  absence; 
and  I  with  my  pockets  empty.  This  is  how  the  Republic 
rewarded  us.  And  yet  I  love  the  Republic.  Ah,  you  mon- 
archy people,  sitting  fat  and  contented  under  tyrants,  respect 
that ! 

This  time  we  took  refuge  in  England.  The  affairs  of  Cen- 
tral America  went  on  without  us. 

I  thought  of  giving  lessons  in  music.  But  my  glorious 
husband  could  not  spare  me  away  from  him.  I  suppose  we 
should  have  starved,  and  made  a  sad  little  paragraph  in  the 
English  newspapers,  if  the  end  had  not  come  in  another  way. 
My  poor  Pratolungo  was,  in  truth,  worn  out.  He  sank  under 
his  sixteenth  exile.  I  was  left  a  widow — with  nothing  but 
the  inheritance  of  my  husband's  noble  sentiments  to  con- 
sole me. 

I  went  back  for  a  while  to  good  Papa  and  my  sisters  in 
Paris.  But  it  was  not  in  my  nature  to  remain  and  be  a  bur- 
den on  them  at  home.  I  returned  again  to  London,  with 
recommendations,  and  encountered  inconceivable  disasters 
in  the  effort  to  earn  a  living  honorably.  Of  all  the  wealth 
ubout  me — the  prodigal)  insolent,  ostentatious  wealth — none 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  9 

fell  to  my  share.  What  right  has  any  body  to  be  rich  ?  I 
defy  you,  whoever  you  may  be,  to  prove  that  any  body  lias 
a  right  to  be  rich. 

Without  dwelling  on  my  disasters,  let  it  be  enough  to  say 
that  I  got  up  one, morning  with  three  pounds,  seven  shillings, 
and  fourpence  in  my  purse,  with  my  excellent  temper,  and 
my  republican  principles,  and  with  absolutely  nothing  in 
prospect — that  is  to  say,  with  not  a  halt-penny  more  to  come 
to  me,  unless  I  could  earn  it  for  myself. 

In  this  sad  case  what  does  an  honest  woman,  who  is  bent 
on  winning  her  own  independence  by  her  own  work,  do? 
She  takes  three  and  sixpence  out  of  her  little  humble  store, 
and  she  advertises  herself  in  a  newspaper. 

One  always  advertises  the  best  side  of  one's  self.  (Ah, 
poor  humanity !)  My  best  side  was  my  musical  side.  In 
the  days  of  my  vicissitudes  (before  my  marriage)  I  had  at 
one  time  had  a  share  in  a  millinery  establishment  in  Lyons. 
At  another  time  I  had  been  bed-chamber  woman  to  a  great 
lady  in  Paris.  But  in  my  present  situation  these  sides  of 
myself  were,  for  various  reasons,  not  so  presentable  as  the 
piano-forte  side.  I  was  not  a  great  player — far  from  it ;  but 
I  had  been  soundly  instructed,  and  I  had  what  you  call  a 
competent  skill  on  the  instrument.  Brief,  I  made  the  best 
of  myself,  I  promise  you,  in  my  advertisement. 

The  next  day  I  borrowed  the  newspaper  to  enjoy  the  pride 
of  seeing  my  composition  in  print. 

Ah,  Heaven  !  what  did  I  discover?  I  discovered  what 
other  wretched  advertising  people  have  found  out  before  me. 
Above  my  own  advertisement  the  very  thing  I  wanted  was 
advertised  for  by  somebody  else.  Look  in  any  newspaper 
and  you  will  see  strangers  who  (if  I  may  so  express  myself) 
exactly  fit  each  other  advertising  for  each  other  without 
knowing  it.  I  had  advertised  myself  as  "accomplished  mu- 
sical companion  for  a  lady.  With  cheerful  temper  to  match." 
And  there,  above  me,  was  my  unknown  necessitous  fellow- 
creature  crying  out  in  printers'  types:  "Wanted,  a  compan- 
ion for  a  lady.  Must  be  an  accomplished  musician,  and  have 
a  cheerful  temper.  Testimonials  to  capacity  and  first-rate 
references  required."  Exactly  what  I  had  ottered.  "  Apply 
by  letter  only  in  the  first  instance."  Exactly  what  I  had 
euid.  Fie  upon  me!  I  had  spent  three  and  sixpence  for 

A  2 


10  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

nothing.  I  threw  down  the  newspaper  in  a  transport  of  ark 
ger  (like  a  fool),  and  then  took  it  up  again  (like  a  sensible 
woman),  and  applied  by  letter  for  the  offered  place. 

My  letter  brought  me  into  contact  with  a  lawyer.  The 
lawyer  enveloped  himself  in  mystery.  It  seemed  to  be  a 
professional  habit  with  him  to  tell  nobody  any  thing  if  he 
could  possibly  help  it. 

Drop  by  drop  this  wearisome  man  let  the  circumstances 
out.  The  lady  was  a  young  lady.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  a  clergyman.  She  lived  in  a  retired  part  of  the  country. 
More  even  than  that,  she  lived  in  a  retired  part  of  the  house. 
Her  father  had  married  a  second  time.  Having  only  the 
young  lady  as  child  by  his  first  marriage,  he  had  (I  suppose 
by  way  of  a  change)  a  large  family  by  his  second  marriage. 
Circumstances  rendered  it  necessary  for  the  young  lady  to 
live  as  much  apart  as  she  could  from  the  tumult  of  a  houseful 
of  children.  So  he  went  on,  until  there  was  no  keeping  it  in 
any  longer,  and  then  he  let  it  out — the  young  lady  was  blind! 

Young — lonely — blind.  I  had  a  sudden  inspiration.  I  felt 
I  should  love  her. 

The  question  of  my  musical  capacity  was  in  this  sad  case 
a  serious  one.  The  poor  young  lady  had  one  great  pleasure 
to  illumine  her  dark  life — music.  Her  companion  was  wanted 
to  play  from  the  book,  and  play  worthily,  the  works  of  the 
great  masters  (whom  this  young  creature  adored) ;  and  she, 
listening,  would  take  her  place  next  at  the  piano  and  repro- 
duce the  music,  morsel  by  morsel,  by  ear.  A  professor  was 
appointed  to  pronounce  sentence  on  me,  and  declare  if  I  could 
be  trusted  not  to  misinterpret  Mozart,  Beethoven,  and  the 
other  masters  who  have  written  for  the  piano.  Through  this 
ordeal  I  passed  with  success.  As  for  my  references,  they 
spoke  for  themselves.  Not  even  the  lawyer  (though  he  tried 
hard)  could  pick  holes  in  them.  It  was  arranged  on  both 
sides  that  I  should,  in  the  first  instance,  go  on  a  month's  visit 
to  the  young  lady.  If  we  both  wished  it  at  the  end  of  that 
time,  I  was  to  stay,  on  terms  arranged  to  my  perfect  satis- 
faction. There  was  our  treaty  ! 

The  next  day  I  started  for  my  visit  by  the  railway. 

My  instructions  directed  me  to  travel  to  the  town  of 
Lewes,  in  Sussex.  Arrived  there,  I  was  to  ask  for  the  pony- 
chaise  of  my  young  lady's  father — described  on  his  card  as 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  1  1 

Reverend  Tertius  Finch.  The  chaise  was  to  take  me  to  the 
rectory  house  in  the  village  of  Dimchureh.  And  the  village 
of  Dimchureh  was  situated  among  the  South  Down  Hills, 
three  or  four  miles  from  the  coast. 

When  I  stepped  into  the  railway  carriage  this  was  all  I 
knew.  After  my  adventurous  life — after  the  voicai  Jc  agita- 
tions of  my  republican  career  in  the  Doctor's  time — was  I 
about  to  bury  myself  in  a  remote  English  village,  and  live  a 
life  as  monotonous  as  the  life  of  a  sheep  on  a  hill?  Ah !  with 
all  my  experience,  I  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  narrowest  hu- 
man limits  are  wide  enough  to  contain  the  grandest  human 
emotions.  I  had  seen  the  Drama  of  Life  amidst  the  turmoil 
of  tropical  revolutions.  I  was  to  see  it  again,  with  all  its 
palpitating  interest,  in  the  breezy  solitudes  of  the  South 
Down  Hills. 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND. 

MADAME  PRATOLUNGO  MAKES  A  VOYAGE   ON  LAND. 

A  WELL-FED  boy,  with  yellow  Saxon  hair,  a  little  shabby 
green  chaise,  and  a  rough  brown  pony — these  objects  con- 
fronted me  at  the  Lewes  station.  I  said  to  the  boy,  "Are 
you  Reverend  Finch's  servant?"  And  the  boy  answered, 
"I  be  he." 

We  drove  through  the  town — a  hilly  town  of  desolate, 
clean  houses.  No  living  creatures  visible  behind  the  jeal- 
ously shut  windows.  No  living  creatures  entering  or  de- 
parting through  the  sad-colored  closed  doors.  No  theatre ; 
no  place  of  amusement,  except  an  empty  town-hall,  with  a 
sad  policeman  meditating  on  its  spruce  white  steps.  No 
customers  in  the  shops,  and  nobody  to  serve  them  behind  the 
counter,  even  if  they  had  turned  up.  Here  and  there  on  the 
pavement  an  inhabitant  with  a  capacity  for  staring,  and 
(apparently)  a  capacity  for  nothing  else.  I  said  to  Reverend 
Finch's  boy,  "Is  this  a  rich  place?"  Reverend  Finch's  boy 
brightened,  and  answered,  "That  it  be!"  Good.  At  any 
rate,  they  don't  enjoy  themselves  here — the  infamous  rich  ! 

Leaving  this  town  of  unamused  citizens  immured  in  do- 
mestic tombs,  we  got  on  a  fine  high-road — still  ascending — 
with  a  spacious  open  country  on  either  side  of  it. 


12  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

A  spacious  open  country  is  a  country  soon  exhausted  by 
a  sight-seer's  eyes.  I  have  learned  from  my  poor  Prato- 
lungo  the  habit  of  searching  for  the  political  convictions  of 
my  fellow-creatures  when  I  find  myself  in  contact  with 
them  in  strange  places.  Having  nothing  else  to  do,  I  search- 
ed Finch's  boy.  His  political  programme  I  found  to  be: 
As  much  meat  and  beer  as  I  can  contain,  and  as  little  work 
to  do  for  it  as  possible.  In  return  for  this,  to  touch  my  hat 
when  I  meet  the  Squire,  and  to  be  content  with  the  station  to 
which  it  has  pleased  God  to  call  me.  Miserable  Finch's  boy  ! 

We  reached  the  highest  point  of  the  road.  On  our  right 
hand  the  ground  sloped  away  gently  into  a  fertile  valley, 
with  a  village  and  a  church  in  it;  and  beyond,  an  abomina- 
ble privileged  inclosure  of  grass  and  trees  torn  from  the 
community  by  a  tyrant,  and  called  a  Park,  with  the  palace 
in  which  this  enemy  of  mankind  caroused  and  fattened 
standing  in  the  midst.  On  our  left  hand  spread  the  open 
country — a  magnificent  prospect  of  grand  grassy  hills  roll- 
ing away  to  the  horizon,  bounded  only  by  the  sky.  To  my 
surprise,  Finch's  boy  descended,  took  the  pony  by  the  head, 
and  deliberately  led  him  off  the  high-road,  and  on  to  the 
wilderness  of  grassy  hills,  on  which  not  so  much  as  a  foot- 
path was  discernible  any  where,  far  or  near.  The  chaise  be- 
gan to  heave  and  roll. like  a  ship  on  the  sea.1  It  became 
necessary  to  hold  with  both  hands  to  keep  my  place.  I 
thought  first  of  my  luggage — then  of  myself. 

"How  much  is  there  of  this?"  I  asked. 

"Three  mile  on't,"  answered  Finch's  boy. 

I  insisted  on  stopping  the  ship — I  mean  the  chaise — and 
on  getting  out.  We  tied  my  luggage  fast  with  a  rope;  and 
then  we  went  on  again,  the  boy  at  the  pony's  head,  and  I 
after  them  on  foot. 

Ah,  what  a  walk  it  was !  What  air  over  my  head,  what 
grass  under  my  feet !  The  sweetness  of  the  inner  land  and 
the  crisp  saltness  of  the  distant  sea  were  mixed  in  that  de- 
licious breeze.  The  short  turf,  fragrant  with  odorous  herbs, 
rose  and  fell  elastic  underfoot.  The  mountain  piles  of  white 
.  cloud  moved  in  sublime  procession  along  the  blue  field  of 
heaven  overhead.  The  wild  growth  of  prickly  bushes,  spread 
in  great  patches  over  the  grass,  was  in  a  glory  of  yellow 
bloom.  On  we  went;  now  up,  now  down;  now  bending  to 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  13 

the  right,  and  now  turning  to  the  left.  I  looked  about  me. 
No  house,  no  road,  no  paths,  fences,  hedges,  "walls ;  no  land- 
marks of  any  sort.  All  round  us,  turn  which  way  we  might, 
nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the  majestic  solitude  of  the  hills. 
No  living  creatures  appeared  but  the  white  dots  of  sheep 
scattered  over  the  soft  green  distance,  and  the  sky-lark  sing- 
ing his  hymn  of  happiness,  a  speck  above  my  head.  Truly 
a  wonderful  place !  Distant  not  more  than  a  morning's 
drive  from  noisy  and  populous  Brighton — a  stranger  to  this 
neighborhood  could  only  have  found  his  way  by  the  com- 
pass, exactly  as  if  he  had  been  sailing  on  the  sea.  The  far- 
ther we  penetrated  on  our  land  voyage,  the  more  wild  and 
the  more  beautiful  the  solitary  landscape  grew.  The  boy 
picked  his  way  as  he  chose— there  were  no  barriers  here. 
Plodding  behind,  I  saw  nothing  at  one  time  but  the  back  of 
the  chaise  tilted  up  in  the  air,  both  boy  and  pony  being  in- 
visibly buried  in  the  steep  descent  of  the  hill.  At  other 
times  the  pitch  was  all  the  contrary  way ;  the  whole  inte- 
rior of  the  ascending  chaise  was  disclosed  to  my  view,  and 
above  the  chaise  the  pony,  and  above  the  pony  the  boy — 
and,  ah,  my  luggage  swaying  and  rocking  in  the  frail  em- 
braces of  the  rope  that  held  it.  Twenty  times  did  I  confi- 
dently expect  to  see  baggage,  chaise,  pony,  boy,  all  rolling 
down  into  the  bottom  of  a  valley  together.  But  no!  Not 
the  least  little  accident  happened  to  spoil  my  enjoyment  of 
the  day.  Politically  contemptible,  Finch's  boy  had  his  mer- 
it— he  was  master  of  his  subject  as  guide  and  pony-leader 
among  the  South  Down  Hills. 

Arrived  at  the  top  of  (as  it  seemed  to  me)  our  fiftieth 
grassy  summit,  I  began  to  look  about  for  signs  of  the  vil- 
lage. 

Behind  me  rolled  back  the  long  undulations  of  the  hills, 
with  the  cloud-shadows  moving  over  the  solitudes  that  we 
had  left.  Before  me,  at  a  break  in  the  purple  distance,  I 
saw  the  soft  white  line  of  the  sea.  Beneath  me,  at  my  feet, 
opened  the  deepest  valley  I  had  noticed  yet — with  one  first 
sign  of  the  presence  of  Man  scored  hideously  on  the  face  of 
Nature,  in  the  shape  of  a  square  brown  patch  of  cleared  and 
plowed  land  on  the  grassy  slope.  I  asked  if  we  were  get- 
ting near  the  village  now.  Finch's  boy  winked,  and  an- 
swered, "  Yes,  we  be." 


14  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

Astonishing  Finch's  boy !  Ask  him  what  questions  1 
might,  the  resources  of  his  vocabulary  remained  invariably 
the  same.  Still  this  youthful  Oracle  answered  always  in 
three  monosyllabic  words ! 

We  plunged  into  the  valley. 

Arrived  at  the  bottom,  I  discovered  another  sign  of  Man. 
Behold  the  first  road  I  had  seen  yet — a  rough  wagon-road 
plowed  deep  in  the  chalky  soil  !  We  crossed  this  and  turn- 
ed a  corner  of  a  hill.  More  signs  of  human  life.  Two  small 
boys  started  up  out  of  a  dry  ditch — apparently  set  as  scouts 
to  give  notice  of  our  approach.  They  yelled  and  set  off 
running  before  us  by  some  short-cut  known  only  to  them- 
selves. We  turned  again,  round  another  winding  of  the 
valley,  and  crossed  a  brook.  I  considered  it  my  duty  to 
make  myself  acquainted  with  the  local  names.  What  was 
the  brook  called?  It  was  called  "The  Cockshoot !"  And 
the  great  hill,  here,  on  my  right?  It  was  called  "The  Over- 
blow !"  Five  minutes  more,  and  we  saw  our  first  house — 
lonely  and  little — built  of  mortar  and  flint  from  the  hills. 
A  name  to  this  also?  Certainly  !  Name  of  "Browndown." 
Another  ten  minutes  of  walking,  involving  us  more  and 
more  deeply  in  the  mysterious  green  windings  of  the  valley, 
and  the  great  event  of  the  day  happened  at  last.  Finch's 
boy  pointed  before  him  with  his  whip,  and  said  (even  at  this 
supreme  moment  still  in  three  monosyllabic  words), 

"  Here  we  be  !" 

So  this  is  Dimchurch  !  I  shake  out  the  chalk-dust  from 
the  skirts  of  my  dress.  I  long  (quite  vainly)  for  the  least 
bit  of  looking-glass  to  see  myself  in.  Here  is  the  population 
(to  the  number  of  at  least  five  or  six)  gathered  together,  in- 
formed by  the  scouts,  and  it  is  my  woman's  business  to  pro- 
duce the  best  impression  of  myself  that  I  can.  We  advance 
along  the  little  road.  I  smile  upon  the  population ;  the 
population  stares  at  me  in  return.  On  one  side  I  remark 
three  or  four  cottages  and  a  bit  of  open  ground ;  also  an  inn 
named  "The  Cross-Hands,"  and  a  bit  more  of  open  ground; 
also  a  tiny.. tiny,  butcher-shop,  with  sanguinary  insides  of 
sheep  on  one  blue  pie-dish  in  the  window,  and  no  other  meat 
than  that,  and  nothing  to  see  beyond  but  again  the  open 
ground,  and  again  the  hills,  indicating  the  end  of  the  village 
on  this  side.  On  the  other  side  there  appears  for  some  dis- 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  15 

tance  nothing  but  a  long  flint  wall  guarding  the  out-houses 
of  a  farm.  Beyond  this  comes  another  little  group  of  cot- 
tages, with  the  seal  of  civilization  set  upon  them  in  the  form 
of  a  post-office.  The  post-office  deals  in  general  commodi- 
ties— in  boots  and  bacon,  biscuits  and  flannel,  crinoline  pet- 
ticoats and  religious  tracts.'  Farther  on,  behold  another 
flint  wall,  a  garden,  and  a  private  dwelling-house,  proclaim- 
ing itself  as  the  rectory.  Farther  yet,  on  rising  ground,  a 
little  desolate  church,  with  a  tiny  white  circular  steeple  top- 
ped by  an  extinguisher  in  red  tiles.  Beyond  this,  the  hills 
and  the  heavens  once  more.  And  there  is  Dimchurch  ! 

As  for  the  inhabitants — what  am  I  to  say?  I  suppose  I 
must  tell  the  truth. 

I  remarked  one  born  gentleman  among  the  inhabitants,  and 
he  was  a  sheep-dog.  He  alone  did  the  honors  of  the  place. 
He  had  a  stump  of  a  tail,  which  he  wagged  at  me  with  ex- 
treme difficulty,  and  a  good  honest  white  and  black  face 
which  he  poked  companionably  into  my  hand.  "  Welcome, 
Madame  Pratolungo,  to  Dimchnrch;  and  excuse  these  male 
and  female  laborers  who  stand  and  stare  at  you.  The  good 
God  who  makes  us  all  has  made  them  too,  but  has  not  suc- 
ceeded so  well  as  with  you  and  me."  I  happen  to  be  one 
of  the  few  people  who  can  read  dogs'  language  as  written  in 
dogs'  faces.  I  correctly  report  the  language  of  the  gentle- 
man sheep-dog  on  this  occasion. 

We  opened  the  gate  of  the  rectory  and  passed  in.  So  my 
Land  Voyage  over  the  South  Down  Hills  came  prosperously 
to  its  end. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRD. 

POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

THE  rectory  resembled,  in  one  respect,  this  narrative  that 
I  am  now  writing.  It  was  in  Two  Parts.  Part  the  First, 
in  front,  composed  of  the  everlasting  flint  and  mortar  of  tho 
neighborhood,  failed  to  interest  me.  Part  the  Second,  run- 
ning back  at  a  right  angle,  asserted  itself  as  ancient.  It 
had  been  in  its  time,  as  I  afterward  heard,  a  convent  of  nuns. 
Here  were  snug  little  Gothic  windows,  and  dark  ivy-covered 
walls  of  venerable  stone,  repaired  in  places  at  some  past  pe- 


16  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

riod  with  quaint  red  bricks.  I  had  hoped  that  I  should  en- 
ter the  house  by  this  side  of  it.  But  no.  The  boy — after 
appearing  to  be  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  me — led  the  Avay 
to  a  door  on  the  modern  side  of  the  building,  and  rang  the 
bell. 

A  slovenly  young  maid-servant  admitted  me  to  the  house. 

Possibly  this  person  was  new  to  the  duty  of  receiving  vis- 
itors. Possibly  she  was  bewildered  by  a  sudden  invasion 
of  children  in  dirty  frocks  darting  out  on  us  in  the  hall,  and 
then  darting  back  again  into  invisible  back  regions,  screech- 
ing at  the  sight  of  a  stranger.  At  any  rate,  she  too  appear- 
ed to  be  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  me.  After  staring  hard 
at  my  foreign  face,  she  suddenly  opened  a  door  in  the  wall 
of  the  passage,  and  admitted  me  into  a  small  room.  Two 
more  children  in  dirty  frocks  darted,  screaming,  out  of  the 
asylum  thus  offered  to  me.  I  mentioned  my  name  as  soon 
as  I  could  make  myself  heard.  The  maid  appeared  to  be 
terrified  at  the  length  of  it.  I  gave  her  my  card.  The 
maid  took  it  between  a  dirty  finger  and  thumb,  looked  at  it 
as  if  it  was  some  extraordinary  natural  curiosity,  turned  it 
round,  exhibiting  correct  black  impressions  in  various  parts 
of  it  of  her  finger  and  thumb,  gave  up  understanding  it  in 
despair,  and  left  the  room.  She  was  stopped  outside  (as  I 
gathered  from  the  sounds)  by  a  returning  invasion  of  chil- 
dren in  the  hall.  There  was  whispering,  there  was  giggling, 
there  was,  every  now  and  then,  a  loud  thump  on  the  door. 
Prompted  by  the  children,  as  I  suppose — pushed  in  by  them, 
certainly — the  maid  suddenly  re-appeared  with  a  jerk.  "Oh, 
if  you  please,  come  this  way,"  she  said.  The  invasion  of 
children  retreated  again  up  the  stairs,  one  of  them  in  pos- 
session of  my  card,  and  waving  it  in  triumph  on  the  first 
landing.  We  penetrated  to  the  other  end  of  the  passage. 
Again  a  door  was  opened.  Unannounced,  I  entered  another 
and  a  larger  room.  What  did  I  see? 

Fortune  had  favored  me  at  last.  My  lucky  star  had  led 
me  to  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

I  made  my  best  courtesy,  and  found  myself  confronting  a 
large,  light -haired,  languid,  lymphatic  lady,  who  had  evi- 
dently been  amusing  herself  by  walking  up  and  down  the 
room  at  the  moment  when  I  appeared.  If  there  can  be  such 
a  thing  as  a  damp  wnnifn.-,  this  was  one.  Thercvwas  a  hu- 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  17 

mid  shine  on  her  colorless  white  face,  and  an  overflow  of 
water  in  her  pale  blue  eyes.  Her  hair  was  not  dressed,  and 
her  lace  cap  was  all  on  one  side.  The  upper  part  of  her 
was  clothed  in  a  loose  jacket  of  blue  merino  ;  the  lower  part 
was  robed  in  a  dimity  dressing-gown  of  doubtful  white.  In 
one  hand  she  held  a  dirty  dog-eared  book,  which  I  at  once 
detected  to  be  a  circulating  library  novel.  Her  other  hand 
supported  a  baby  enveloped  in  flannel,  sucking  at  her  breast. 
Such  was  my  first  experience  of  Reverend  Finch's  wife — 
destined  to  be  also  the  experience  of  all  after-time.  Never 
completely  dressed,  never  completely  dry;  always  with  a 
baby  in  one  hand  and  a  novel  in  the  other — such  was  Finch's 
wife ! 

"Oh,  Madame  Pratolungo?  Yes.  I  hope  somebody  has 
told  Miss  Finch  you  are  here.  She  has  her  own  establish- 
ment, and  manages  every  thing  herself.  Have  you  had  a 
pleasant  journey  ?"  (These  words  were  spoken  vacantly,  .-is 
if  her  mind  was  occupied  with  something  else.  My  first  im- 
pression of  her  suggested  that  she  was  a  weak,  good-natured 
woman,  and  that  she  must  have  originally  occupied  a  sta- 
tion in  the  humbler  ranks  of  life.) 

"Thank  yon,  Mrs.  Finch,"  I  said.  "I  have  enjoyed  most 
heartily  my  journey  among  your  beautiful  hills." 

"Oh,  you  like  the  hills?  Excuse  my  dress.  I  was  half 
an  hour  lale  this  morning.  When  you  lose  half  an  hour  in 
this  house  you  never  can  pick  it  up  again,  try  how  you 
may."  (I  soon  discovered  that  Mrs.  Finch  was  always  los- 
ing half  an  hour  out  of  her  day,  and  that  she  never,  by  any 
chance,  succeeded  in  finding  it  again,  as  she  had  just  told 
me.) 

"I  understand,  madam.  The  cares  of  a  numerous  fam- 
ily—" 

"Ah!  that's  just  where  it  is."  (This  wns  a  favorite 
phrase  with  Mrs.  Finch.)  "There's  Finch,  he  gets  up  in  the 
morning,  and  goes  and  works  in  the  garden.  Then  there's 
the  washing  of  the  children,  and  the  dreadful  waste  that 
goes  on  in  the  kitchen.  And  Finch,  he  comes  in  without 
any  notice,  and  wants  his  breakfast.  And,  of  course,  I  can't 
leave  the  baby.  And  half  an  hour  does  slip  away  so  easily 
that  how  to  overtake  it  again  I  do  assure  you  I  really  don't 
know."  Here  the  baby  began  to  exhibit  symptoms  of  hav- 


18  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

ing  taken  more  maternal  nourishment  than  his  infant  stom- 
ach could  comfortably  contain.  I  held  the  novel  while 
Mrs.  Finch  searched  for  her  handkerchief — first,  in  her  bed- 
gown pocket ;  secondly,  here,  there,  and  every  where  in  the 
room. 

At  this  interesting  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 
An  elderly  woman  appeared,  who  offered  a  most  refreshing 
contrast  to  the  members  of  the  household  with  whom  I  had 
made  acquaintance  thus  far.  She  was  neatly  dressed;  and 
she  saluted  me  with  the  polite  composure  of  a  civilized 
being. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am.  My  young  lady  has  only 
this  moment  heard  of  your  arrival.  Will  you  be  so  kind  as 
to  follow  me?" 

I  turned  to  Mrs.  Finch.  She  had  found  her  handkerchief, 
and  had  put  her  overflowing  baby  to  rights  again.  I  re- 
spectfully handed  back  the  novel.  "Thank  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Finch.  "  I  find  novels  compose  my  mind.  Do  you  read 
novels  too?  Remind  me,  and  I'll  lend  you  this  one  to-mor- 
row." I  expressed  my  acknowledgments  and  withdrew. 
At  the  door  I  looked  round,  saluting  the  lady  of  the  house. 
Mrs.  Finch  was  promenading  the  room,  with  the  baby  in 
one  hand  and  the  novel  in  the  other,  and  the  dimity  bed- 
gown trailing  behind  her. 

We  ascended  the  stairs,  and  entered  a  bare  whitewashed 
passage,  with  drab-colored  doors  in  it,  leading,  as  I  pre- 
sumed, into  the  sleeping-chambers  of  the  house. 

Every  door  opened  as  we  passed ;  children  peeped  out  at 
me,  and  banged  the  door  to  again.  "  What  family  has  the 
present  Mrs.  Finch  ?"  I  asked.  The  decent  elderly  woman 
was  obliged  to  stop  and  consider.  "Including  the  baby, 
ma'am,  and  two  sets  of  twins,  and  one  seven  months'  child 
of  deficient  intellect — fourteen  in  all."  Hearing  this,  I  be- 
gan— though  I  consider  priests,  kings,  and  capitalists  to  be 
the  enemies  of  the  human  race — to  feel  a  certain  exceptional 
interest  in  Reverend  Finch.  Did  he  never  wish  that  he  had 
been  a  priest  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  mercifully  for- 
bidden to  marry  at  all  ?  While  the  question  passed  through 
my  mind  my  guide  took  out  a  key  and  opened  a  heavy  oak- 
en door  at  the  farther  end  of  the  passage. 

"We  are  obliged  to  keep  the  door  locked,  ma'am,"  she 


POOR   MISS    FINCU.  19 

explained,  "or  the  children  would  be  in  and  out  of  our  part 
of  the  house  all  day  long." 

After  ray  experience  of  the  children,  I  own  I  looked  at  the 
oaken  door  with  mingled  sentiments  of  gratitude  and  re- 
spect. 

We  turned  a  corner,  and  found  ourselves  in  the  vaulted 
corridor  of  the  ancient  portion  of  the  house. 

The  casement  windows  on  one  side — sunk  deep  in  recesses 
— looked  into  the  garden.  Each  recess  was  filled  with 

o 

groups  of  flowers  in  pots.  On  the  other  side  the  old  wall 
was  gayly  decorated  with  hangings  of  bright  chintz.  The 
doors  were  colored  of  a  creamy  white,  with  gilt  mouldings. 
The  brightly  ornamented  matting  under  3ur  feet  I  at  once 
recogni/ed  as  of  South  American  origin.  The  ceiling  above 
was  decorated  in  delicate  pale  blue,  with  borderings  of  flow- 
ers. Nowhere  down  the  whole  extent  of  the  place  was  so 
much  as  a  single  morsel  of  dark  color  to  be  seen  any  where. 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  corridor  a  solitary  figure  in  a 
pure  white  robe  was  bending  over  the  flowers  in  the  win- 
dow. This  was  the  blind  girl  whose  dark  hours  I  had  come 
.to  cheer.  In  the  scattered  villages  of  the  South  Downs  the 
simple  people  added  their  word  of  pity  to  her  name,  and 
called  her,  compassionately,  "  Poor  Miss  Finch."  As  for  me, 
I  can  only  think  of  her  by  her  pretty  Christian  name.  She 
is  "Lucilla"  when  my  memory  dwells  on  her.  Let  me  call 
her  "Lucilla"  here. 

When  my  eyes  first  rested  on  her  she  was  picking  off"  the 
dead  leaves  from  her  flowers.  Her  delicate  ear  detected  the 
sound  of  my  strange  footstep  long  before  I  reached  the 
place  at  which  she  was  standing.  She  lifted  her  head  and 
advanced  quickly  to  meet  me,  with  a  faint  flush  on  her  iace, 
which  came  and  died  away  again  in  a  moment.  I  happen 
to  have  visited  the  picture-gallery  at  Dresden  in  former 
years.  As  she  approached  me,  nearer  ami  nearer,  I  was  ir- 
resistibly reminded  of  the  gem  of  that  superb  collection — 
the  matchless  Virgin  of  Raphael,  called  "The  Madonna  di 
San  Sisto."  The  lair  broad  forehead;  the  peculiar  fullness 
of  the  flesh  between  the  eyebrow  anil  the  eyelid ;  the  deli- 
cate outline  of  the  lower  face ;  the  tender,  sensitive  lips ;  the 
color  of  the  complexion  and  the'  hair — all  reflected  with  a 
startling  fidelity  the  lovely  creature  of  the  Dresden  picture. 


20  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

The  one  fatal  point  at  which  the  resemblance  ceased  was  in 
the  eyes.  The  divinely  beautiful  eyes  of  Raphael's  Virgin 
were  lost  in  the  living  likeness  of  her  that  confronted  me 
now.  There  was  no  deformity,  there  was  nothing  to  recoil 
from,  in  my  blind  Lucilla.  The  poor,  dim,  sightless  eyes  had 
a  faded,  changeless,  inexpressive  luok  —  and  that  was  all. 
Above  them,  below  them,  round  them  to  the  very  edges  of 
her  eyelids,  there  was  beauty,  movement,  life.  In  them — 
death.  A  more  charming  creature — with  that  one  sad  draw- 
back— I  never  saw.  There  was  no  other  personal  defect  in 
her.  She  had  the  fine  height,  the  well-balanced  figure,  and 
the  length  of  the  lower  limbs  which  make  all  a  woman's 
movements  graceful  of  themselves.  Her  voice  was  delicious 
— clear,  cheerful,  sympathetic.  This,  and  her  smile,  which 
added  a  charm  of  its  own  to  the  beauty  of  her  mouth,  won 
my  heart  before  she  had  got  close  enough  to  me  to  put  her 
hand  in  mine.  "  Ah,  my  dear !"  I  said,  in  my  headlong 
way,  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you!"  The  instant  the  words 
passed  my  lips  I  could  have  cut  my  tongue  out  for  remind- 
ing her  in  that  brutal  manner  that  she  was  blind. 

To  my  relief,  she  showed  no  sign  of  feeling  it  as  I  did. 
"May  I  see  you  in  my  way?"  she  asked,  gently,  and  held  up 
her  pretty  white  hand.  "May  I  touch  your  face?" 

I  sat  down  at  once  on  the  window-seat.  The  soft,  rosy 
tips  of  her  fingers  seemed  to  cover  my  whole  face  in  an  in- 
stant. Three  separate  times  she  passed  her  hand  rapidly 
over  me,  her  own  face  absorbed  all  the  while  in  breathless 
attention  to  what  she  was  about.  "  Speak  again  !"  she  said, 
suddenly,  holding  her  hand  over  me  in  suspense.  I  said  a 
few  words.  She  stopped  me  by  a  kiss.  "  No  more  !"  she  ex- 
claimed joyously.  "Your  voice  says  to  my  ears  what  your 
face  says  to  my  fingers.  I  know  I  shall  like  you.  Come  in 
and  see  the  rooms  we  are  going  to  live  in  together." 

As  I  rose  she  put  her  arm  round  my  waist — then  instantly 
drew  it  away  again,  and  shook  her  fingers  impatiently,  as  if 
something  had  hurt  them. 

"  A  pin  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Xo !  no  !     What  colored  dress  have  you  got  on  ?" 

"  Purple." 

"  Ah  !  T  knew  it !  Pray  don't  wear  dark  colors.  I  have 
my  own  blind  horror  of  any  thing  that  is  dark.  Dear  Mad- 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  21 

amc  Pratolungo, wear  pretty  bright  colors,  to  please  me!" 
She  put  her  arm  caressingly  round  me  again — round  my  neck, 
however,  this  time,  where  her  hand  could  rest  on  my  linen 
collar.  "You  will  change  your  dress  before  dinner — won't 
you  ?"  s.he  whispered.  "  Let  me  unpack  for  you,  and  choose 
which  dress  I  like." 

The  brilliant  decorations  of  the  corridor  were  explained  to 
me  now. 

We  entered  the  rooms;  her  bedroom,  my  bedroom,  and 
our  sitting-room  between  the  two.  I  was  prepared  to  find 
them,  what  they  proved  to  be — as  bright  as  looking-glasses 
and  gilding  and  gayly  colored  ornaments  and  cheerful  knick- 
knacks  of  all  sorts  could  make  them.  They  were  more  like 
rooms  in  my  lively  native  country  than  rooms  in  sober,  color- 
less England.  The  one  thing  which,  I  own,  did  still  astonish 
me  was  that  all  this  sparkling  beauty  of  adornment  in  Lucil- 
la's  habitation  should  have  been  provided  for  the  express 
gratification  of  a  young  lady  who  could  not  see.  Experience 
was  yet  to  show  me  that  the  blind  can  live  in  their  imagina- 
tions, and  have  their  favorite  fancies  and  illusions  like  the 
rest  of  us. 

To  satisfy  Lucilla  by  changing  my  dark  purple  dress,  it 
was  necessary  that  I  should  first  have  my  boxes.  So  far  as 
I  knew,  Finch's  boy  had  taken  my  luggage,  along  with  the 
pony,  to  the  stables.  Before  Lucilla  could  ring  the  bell  to 
make  inquiries,  my  elderly  guide  (who  had  silently  left  us 
while  we  were  talking  together  in  the  corridor)  re-appeared, 
followed  by  the  boy  and  a  groom,  carrying  my  things. 
These  servants  also  brought  with  them  certain  parcels  for 
their  young  mistress,  purchased  in  the  town,  together  with 
a  be  Ule,  wrapped  in.  fair  white  paper,  which  looked  like  a 
bottle  of  medicine — and  which  had  a  part  of  its  own  to  play 
in  our  proceedings  later  in  the  day. 

"  This  is  my  old  nurse,"  said  Lucilla,  presenting  her  at- 
tendant to  me.  "Zillah  can  do  a  little  of  every  thing — cook- 
ing included.  She  has  had  lessons  at  a  London  club.  You 
must  like  Zillah,  Madame  Pratolungo,  for  my  sake.  Are 
your  boxes  open  ?" 

She  went  down  on  her  knees  before  the  boxes  as  she  asked 
the  question.  No  girl  with  the  full  use  of  her  eyes  could 
have  enjoyed  more  thoroughly  than  she  did  the  trivial  amuse- 


22  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

raent  of  unpacking  my  clothes.  This  time,  however,  her  won- 
derful delicacy  of  touch  proved  to  be  at  fault.  Of  two  dresses 
of  mine  which  happened  to  be  exactly  the  same  in  texture, 
though  widely  different  in  color,  she  picked  out  the  dark 
dress  as  being  the  light  one.  I  saw  that  I  disappointed  her 
sadly  when  I  told  her  of  her  mistake.  The  next  guess  she 
made,  however,  restored  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  their  place 
in  her  estimation :  she  discovered  the  stripes  in  a  smart  pair 
of  stockings  of  mine,  and  brightened  up  directly.  "  Don't 
be  long  dressing,"  she  said  on  leaving  me.  "  We  shall  have 
dinner  in  half  an  hour — French  dishes,  in  honor  of  your  ar- 
rival. I  like  a  nice  dinner;  I  am  what  you  call  in  your 
country  gourmande.  See  the  sad  consequences!"  She  put 
one  finger  to  her  pretty  chin.  "I  am  getting  fat;  I  am 
threatened  with  a  double  chin — at  two-and-twenty.  Shock- 
ing !  shocking !" 

So  she  left  me.     And  such  was  the  first  impression  pro- 
duced on  my  mind  by  "  Poor  Miss  Finch." 


CHAPTER   THE   FOURTH. 

TWILIGHT  VIEW  OF  THE  MAN. 

ODR  nice  dinner  had  long  since  come  to  an  end.  We  had 
chattered,  chattered,  chattered — as  usual  with  women — all 
about  ourselves.  The  day  had  declined,  the  setting  sun  was 
pouring  its  last  red  lustre  into  our  pretty  sitting-room,  when 
Lucilla  started  as  if  she  had  suddenly  remembered  something, 
and  rang  the  bell. 

Zillah  came  in.  "The  bottle  from  the  chemist's,"  said 
Lucilla.  "I  ought  to  have  remembered  it  hours  ago." 

"Are  you  going  to  take  it  to  Susan  yourself,  my  dear?" 

I  was  glad  to  hear  the  old  nurse  address  her  young  lady 
in  that  familiar  way.  It  was  so  thoroughly  un-English. 
Down  with  the  devilish  system  of  separation  between  the 
classes  in  this  country — that  is  what  I  say. 

"Yes;  I  am  going  to  take  it  to  Susan  myself." 

"Shall  I  go  with  you?" 

"  No,  no.  Not  the  least  occasion."  She  turned  to  me. 
"  I  suppose  you  are  too  tired  to  go  out  again  after  your 
walk  on  the  hills  ?"  she  said. 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  23 

I  had  dined;  I  had  rested;  I  was  quite  ready  to  go  oat 
again,  and  I  said  so. 

O  f 

Lucilla's  face  brightened.  For  some  reason  of  her  own 
she  had  apparently  attached  a  certain  importance  to  per- 
suading me  to  go  out  with  her. 

~  o 

"It's  only  a  visit  to  a  poor  rheumatic  woman  in  the  vil- 
lage," she  said.  "I  have  got  an  embrocation  for  her;  and  I 
can't  very  well  send  it.  She  is  old  and  obstinate.  If  I  take 
it  to  her,  she  will  believe  in  the  remedy.  If  any  body  else 
takes  it,  she  will  throw  it  away.  I  had  utterly  forgotten  her 
in  the  interest  of  our  nice  long  talk.  Shall  we  get  ready?" 

I  had  hardly  closed  the  door  of  my  bedroom  when  there 
was  a  knock  at  it.  Lucilla?  No:  the  old  nurse  entering  on 
tiptoe,  with  a  face  of  mystery,  and  a  finger  confidentially 
placed  on  her  lips. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  she  began,  in  a  Avhisper.  "  I 
think  you  ought  to  know  that  my  young  lady  has  a  purpose 
in  taking  you  out  with  her  this  evening.  She  is  burning 
with  curiosity — like  all  the  rest  of  us,  for  that  matter.  She 
took  me  out  and  used  my  eyes  to  see  with  yesterday  even- 
ing, and  they  have  not  satisfied  her.  She  is  going  to  try 
your  eyes  now." 

"What  is  Miss  Lucilla  so  curious  about?"  I  inquired. 

"  It's  natural  enough,  poor  dear,"  pursued  the  old  woman, 
following  her  own  train  of  thought,  without  the  slightest 
reference  to  my  question.  "We  none  of  us  can  find  out  any 
thing  about  him.  He  usually  takes  his  walk  at  twilight. 
You  are  pretty  sure  to  meet  him  to-night;  and  you  will  judge 
for  yourself,  ma'am — with  an  innocent  young  creature  like 
Miss  Lucilla — what  it  may  be  best  to  do." 

This  extraordinary  answer  set  my  curiosity  in  a  flame. 

"  My  good  creature,"  I  said,  "  you  forget  that  I  am  a 
stranger.  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Has  this  mysterious 
man  got  a  name  ?  Who  is  '  He  ?' " 

As  I  said  that  there  was  another  knock  at  the  door.  Z51- 
lah  whispered,  eagerly,  "Don't  tell  upon  me,  ma'am!  You 
will  see  for  yourself.  I  only  speak  for  my  young  lady's 
good."  She  hobbled  away  and  opened  the  door — and  there 
was  Lucilla,  with  her  smart  garden-hat  on,  waiting  for  me. 

We  went  out  by  our  own  door  into  the  garden,  and, passing 
through  a  gate  in  the  wall,  entered  the  village. 


24  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

After  the  caution  which  the  nurse  had -given  me,  it  was  im- 
possible to  ask  any  questions,  except  at  the  risk  of  making 
mischief  in  our  little  household  on  the  first  day  of  my  joining 
it.  I  kept  my  eyes  wide  open,  and  waited  for  events.  I  also 
committed  a  blunder  at  starting— I  offered  Lucilla  my  hand 
to  lead  her.  She  burst  out  laughing. 

"My  dear  Madame  Pratolungo,  I  know  my  way  better 
than  you  do.  I  roam  all  over  the  neighborhood  with  nothing 
to  help  me  but  this." 

She  held  up  a  smart  ivory  walking-cane,  with  a  bright  silk 
tassel  attached.  With  her  cane  in  one  hand,  and  her  chem- 
ical bottle  in  the  other — and  her  roguish  little  hat  on  the  top 
of  her  head — she  made  the  quaintest  and  prettiest  picture  I 
had  seen  for  many  a  long  day.  "  You  shall  guide  me,  my 
dear,"  I  said,  and  took  her  arm.  We  went  on  down  the  villaga 

Nothing  in  the  least  like  a  mysterious  figure  passed  us  in 
the  twilight.  The  few  scattered  laboring  people  whom  I 
had  already  seen  I  saw  again,  and  that  was  all.  Lucilla  was 
silent — suspiciously  silent,  as  I  thought,  after  what  Zillah  had 
told  me.  She  had,  as  I  fancied,  the  look  of  a  person  who  was 
listening  intently.  Arrived  at  the  cottage  of  the  rheumatic 
woman,  she  stopped  and  went  in,  while  I  waited  outside.  The 
affair  of  the  embrocation  was  not  long.  She  was  out  again 
in  a  minute,  and  this  time  she  took  my  arm  of  her  own  accord. 

"Shall  we  go  a  little  farther?"  she  said.  "It  is  so  nice 
and  cool  at  this  hour  of  the  evening." 

Her  object  in  view,  whatever  it  might  be,  was  evidently 
an  object  that  lay  beyond  the  village.  In  the  solemn,  peace- 
ful twilight  we  followed  the  lonely  windings  of  the  valley 
along  which  I  had  passed  in  the  morning.  When  we  came 
opposite  the  little  solitary  house  which  I  had  already  learned 
to  know  as  "  Browndown,"  I  felt  her  hand  unconsciously 
tighten  on  my  arm.  "Aha!"  I  said  to  myself.  "lias 
Browndown  any  thing  to  do  with  this?" 

"Does  the  view  look  very  lonely  to-night?"  she  asked, 
waving  her  cane  over  the  scene  before  us. 

The  true  meaning  of  that  question  I  took  to  be,  "  Do  you 
see  any  body  walking  out  to-night?"  It  was  not  my  busi- 
ness to  interpret  her  meaning  before  she  had  thought  fit  to 
confide  her  secret  to  me.  "To  my  mind,  dear,"  was  all  I 
paid,  "it  is  a  very  beautiful  view." 


POOtt    MISS    FINCH.  25 

She  fell  silent  again,  and  absorbed  herself  in  her  own 
thoughts.  We  turned  into  a  new  winding  of  the  valley,  and 
there,  walking  toward  us  from  the  opposite  direction,  was  a 
human  figure  at  last — the  figure  of  a  solitary  man  ! 

As  we  got  nearer  to  each  other  I  perceived  that  he  was  a 
gentleman ;  dressed  in  a  light  shooting-jacket,  and  wearing 
a  felt  hat  of  the  conical  Italian  shape.  A  little  nearer,  and  I 
saw  that  he  was  young.  Nearer  still,  and  I  discovered  that 
he  was  handsome,  though  in  rather  an  effeminate  way.  At 
the  same  moment  Lucilla  heard  his  footstep.  Her  color  in- 
stantly rose,  and  once  again  I  felt  her  hand  tighten  involun- 
tarily round  my  arm.  (Good  !  Here  was  the  mysterious 
object  of  Zillah's  warning  to  me  found  at  last !) 

I  have,  and  I  don't  mind  acknowledging  it,  an  eye  for  a 
handsome  man.  I  looked  at  him  as  he  passed  us.  Now,  I 
solemnly  assure  you,  I  am  not  an  ugly  woman.  Nevertheless, 
as  our  eyes  met,  I  saw  the  strange  gentleman's  face  suddenly 
contract,  with  an  expression  which  told  me  plainly  that  I 
had  produced  a  disagreeable  impression  on  him.  With  some 
difficulty  —  for  my  companion  was  holding  my  arm,  and 
seemed  to  be  disposed  to  stop  altogether — I  quickened  my 
pace  so  as  to  get  by  him  rapidly;  showing  him,  I  dare  say, 
that  I  thought  the  change  in  his  face  when  I  looked  at  him 
an  impertinence  on  his  part.  However  that  may  be,  after  a 
momentary  interval  I  heard  his  step  behind.  The  man  had 
turned,  and  had  followed  us. 

He  came  close  to  me,  on  the  opposite  side  to  Lucilla,  and 
took  off  his  hat. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "  You  looked  at 
me  just  now." 

At  the  first  sound  of  Ins  voice  I  felt  Lucilla  start.  Her 
hand  began  to  tremble  on  my  arm  with  some  sudden  agita- 
tion inconceivable  to  me.  In  the  double  surprise  of  discov- 
ering this  and  of  finding  myself  charged  so  abruptly  with  the 
offense  of  looking  at  a  gentleman,  I  suffered  the  most  excep- 
tional of  all  losses  (where  a  woman  is  concerned) — the  loss 
of  my  tongue. 

He  gave  me  no  time  to  recover  myself.  lie  proceeded  with 
what  he  had  to  say — speaking,  mind,  in  the  tone  of  a  perfect- 
ly well-bred  man,  with  nothing  wild  in  his  look  and  nothing 
odd  in  his  manner. 

B 


26  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

"Excuse  me  if  I  venture  on  asking  you  a  very  strange  ques- 
tion," he  went  on.  "  Did  you  happen  to  be  at  Exeter  on  the 
third  of  last  month?" 

(I  must  have  been  more  or  less  than  woman  if  I  had  not 
recovered  the  use  of  my  tongue  now.) 

"  I  never  was  at  Exeter  in  my  life,  Sir,"  I  answered.  "  May 
I  ask,  on  my  side,  why  you  put  the  question  to  me?" 

Instead  of  replying,  he  looked  at  Lucilla. 

"Pardon  me  once  more.     Perhaps  this  young  lady — 

He  was  plainly  on  the  point  of  inquiring  next  whether  Lu- 
cilla  had  been  at  Exeter,  when  he  checked  himself.  In  the 
breathless  interest  which  she  felt  in  what  was  going  on  she 
had  turned  her  full  face  upon  him.  There  was  still  light 
enough  left  for  her  eyes  to  tell  their  own  sad  story,  in  their 
own  mute  way.  As  he  read  the  truth  in  them  the  man's  face 
changed  from  the  keen  look  of  scrutiny  which  it  had  worn 
thus  far  to  an  expression  of  compassion — I  had  almost  said 
of  distress.  He  again  took  oft' his  hat,  and  bowed  to  me  with 
the  deepest  respect. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon/'  he  said,  very  earnestly  ;  "  I  beg  the 
young  lady's  pardon.  Pray  forgive  me.  My  strange  behav- 
ior has  its  excuse — if  I  could  bring  myself  to  explain  it.  Yon 
distressed  me  when  you  looked  at  me.  I  can't  explain  why. 
Good-evening." 

He  turned  away  hastily,  like  a  man  confused  and  ashamed 
of  himself,  and  left  us.  I  can  only  repeat  that  there  was 
nothing  strange  or  flighty  in  his  manner.  A  perfect  gentle- 
man, in  full  possession  of  his  senses — there  is  the  unexagger- 
ated  and  the  just  description  of  him. 

I  looked  at  Lucilla.  She  was  standing  with  her  blind  face 
raised  to  the  sky,  lost  in  herself,  like  a  person  rapt  in  ecstasy. 

"  Who  is  that  man  ?"  I  asked. 

My  question  brought  her  down  suddenly  from  heaven  to 
earth.  "Oh  !"  she  said,  reproachfully,  "I  had  his  voice  still 
in  my  ears,  and  now  I  have  lost  it !  '  Who  is  he  !' "  she  add- 
ed, after  a  moment,  repeating  my  question  ;  "  nobody  knows. 
Tell  me — what  is  he  like?  Is  he  beautiful?  He  must  be 
beautiful,  with  that  voice !" 

"Is  this  the  first  time  you  have  heard  his  voice?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"Yes.     He  passed  us  yesterday,  when  I  was  out  with  Zil- 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  29 

lah  ;  but  he  never  spoke.  What  is  he  like  ?  Do,  pray,  tell 
me — what  is  he  like  ?" 

There  was  a  passionate  impatience  in  her  tone  which  warned 
me  not  to  trifle  with  her.  The  darkness  was  coming.  I 
thought  it  wise  to  propose  returning  to  the  house.  She  con- 
sented to  do  any  thing  I  liked,  as  long  as  I  consented,  on  my 
side,  to  describe  the  unknown  man. 

All  the  way  back  I  was  questioned  and  cross-questioned, 
till  I  felt  like  a  witness  under  skillful  examination  in  a  court 
of  law.  Lucilla  appeared  to  be  satisfied  so  far  with  the  re- 
sults. 

"Ah  !"  she  exclaimed,  letting  out  the  secret  which  her  old 
nurse  had  confided  to  me.  "  You  can  use  your  own  eyes. 
Zillah  could  tell  me  nothing." 

o 

When  we  got  home  again  her  curiosity  took  another  turn. 
"Exeter?"  she  said,  considering  with  herself.  "He  men- 
tioned Exeter.  I  am  like  you — I  never  was  there.  What 
will  books  tell  us  about  Exeter?"  She  dispatched  Zillah  to 
the  other  side  of  the  house  for  a  gazetteer. 

I  followed  the  old  woman  into  the  corridor,  and  set  her 
mind  at  ease  in  a  whisper.  "I  have  kept  what  you  told  me 
a  secret,"  I  said.  "The  man  was  out  in  the  twilight,  as  you 
foretold.  I  have  spoken  to  him ;  and  I  am  quite  as  curious 
as  the  rest  of  you.  Get  the  book." 

Lucilla  had,  to  confess  the  truth,  infected  me  with  her  idea 
that  the  gazetteer  might  help  us  in  interpreting  the  stranger's 
remarkable  question  relating  to  the  third  of  last  month,  and 
his  extraordinary  assertion  that  I  had  distressed  him  when  I 
looked  at  him.  With  the  nurse  breathless  on  one  side  of  me, 
and  Lucilla  breathless  on  the  other,  I  opened  the  book  at  the 
letter  "  E,"  and  found  the  place,  and  read  aloud  these  lines, 
as  follows: 

"  EXETER.  A  city  and  sen-port  in  Devonshire.  Formerly  the  seat  of 
the  West  Saxon  Kings.  It  has  a  large  foreign  and  home  commerce.  Pop- 
lation  33,738.  The  Assizes  for  Devonshire  are  held  at  Kxeter  in  the  spring 
and  summer." 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  asked  Lucilla. 

I  shut  the  book,  and  answered,  like  Finch's  boy,  in  three 
monosyllabic  words  : 
"That  is  all." 


30  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTH. 

CANDLE-LIGHT   VIEW   OF   THE   MAN. 

THERE  had  been  barely  light  enough  left  for  me  to  read  by. 
Zillah  lit  the  candles  and  drew  the  curtains.  The  silence 
which  betokens  a  profound  disappointment  reigned  in  the 
room. 

"Who  can  he  be?"  repeated  Lucilla,  for  the  hundredth 
time.  "And  why  should  your  looking  at  him  have  distressed 
him?  Guess,  Madame  Pratolungo!" 

The  last  sentence  in  the  gazetteer's  description  of  Exeter 
hung  a  little  on  my  mind,  in  consequence  of  there  being  one 
word  in  it  which  I  did  not  quite  understand — the  word  "As- 
sizes." I  have,  I  hope,  shown  that  I  possess  a  competent 
knowledge  of  the  English  language  by  this  time.  But  my 
experience  fails  a  little  on  the  side  of  phrases  consecrated  to 
the  use  of  the  law.  I  inquired  into  the  meaning  of  "Assizes," 
and  was  informed  that  it  signified  movable  courts,  for  trying 
prisoners  at  given  times  in  various  parts  of  England.  Hear- 
ing this,  I  had  another  of  my  inspirations.  I  guessed  imme- 
diately that  the  interesting  stranger  was  a  criminal  escaped 
from  the  Assizes. 

Worthy  old  Zillah  started  to  her  feet,  convinced  that  I  had 
hit  him  off  (as  the  English  saying  is)  to  a  T.  "Mercy  pre- 
serve us!"  cried  the  nurse,  "I  haven't  bolted  the  garden 
door !" 

She  hurried  out  of  the  room  to  rescue  us  from  robbery  and 
murder  before  it  was  too  late.  I  looked  at  Lucilla.  She  was 
leaning  back  in  her  chair,  with  a  smile  of  quiet  contempt  on 
her  pretty  face.  "Madame  Pratolungo,"  she  remarked,  "that 
is  the  first  foolish  thing  you  have  said  since  you  have  been 
here." 

"  Wait  a  little,  my  dear,"  I  rejoined.  "  You  have  declared 
that  nothing  is  known  of  this  man.  Now  you  mean  by  that 
— nothing  which  satisfies  //<»/,  He  has  not  dropped  down 
from  heaven,  I  suppose  ?  The  time  when  he  came  here  must 
be  known.  Also,  whether  he  came  alone  or  not.  Also,  how 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  31 

and  where  he  has  found  a  lodging  in  the  village.  Before  I 
admit  that  my  guess  is  completely  wrong,  I  want  to  hear 
what  general  observation  in  Dimchurch  has  discovered  on 
the  subject  of  this  gentleman.  How  long  has  he  been  here?" 

Lucilla  did  not,  at  first,  appear  to  be  much  interested  in 
the  purely  practical  view  of  the  question  which  I  had  just 
placed  before  her. 

"  He  has  been  here  a  week,"  she  answered,  carelessly. 

"Did  he  come,  as  I  came,  over  the  hills?" 

"Yes." 

"With  a  guide,  of  course  ?" 

Lucilla  suddenly  sat  up  in  her  chair. 

"  With  his  brother,"  she  said.  "  His  twin  brother,  Mad- 
ame Pratohmgo." 

/sat  up  in  my  chair.  The  appearance  of  his  twin  brother 
in  the  story  was  a  complication  in  itself  Two  criminals  es- 
caped from  the  Assizes,  instead  of  one ! 

"  How  did  they  find  their  way  here  ?"  I  asked  next. 

*•  Nobody  knows." 

"  Where  did  they  go  to  when  they  got  here  ?" 

"To  the  Cross-Hands — the  little  public-house  in  the  vil- 
lage. The  landlord  told  Zillah  he  was  perfectly  astonished 
at  the  resemblance  between  them.  It  was  impossible  to 
know  which  was  which — it  was  wonderful,  even  for  twins. 
They  arrived  early  in  the  day,  when  the  tap-room  was  emp- 
ty; and  they  had  a  long  talk  together  in  private.  At  the 
end  of  it  they  rang  for  the  landlord,  and  asked  if  he  had  a 
bed-room  to  let  in  the  house.  You  must  have  seen  for  your- 
self that  the  Cross-Hands  is  a  mere  beer-shop.  The  landlord 
had  a  room  that  he  could  spare — a  wretched  place,  not  fit  for 
a  gentleman  to  sleep  in.  One  of  the  brothers  took  the  room, 
for  all  that." 

"What  became  of  the  other  brother?" 

"He  went  away  the  same  day — very  unwillingly.  The 
parting  between  them  was  most  affecting.  The  brother  who 
spoke  to  us  to-night  insisted  on  it,  or  the  other  would  have 
refused  to  leave  him.  They  both  shed  tears — 

"They  did  worse  than  that,"  said  old  Zillah,  re-entering 
the  room  at  the  moment.  "  I  have  made  all  the  doors  and 
windows  fast  down  stairs-,  he  can't  get  in  now,  my  dear,  if 
he  tries."  \ 


32  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

"What  did  they  do  that  was  worse  than  crying?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"  Kissed  each  other !"  said  Zillah,  witli  a  look  of  profound 
disgust.  "  Two  men  !" 

"Perhaps  they  are  foreigners,"  I  suggested.  "Did  they 
give  themselves  a  name  ?" 

o 

"The  landlord  asked  the  one  who  stayed  behind  for  his 
name,"  replied  Lucilla.  "He  said  it  was  'Dubourg.'" 

This  confirmed  me  in  my  belief  that  I  had  guessed  right. 
"Dubourg"  is  as  common  a  name  in  my  country  ns  "Jones" 
or  "Thompson"  is  in  England — just  the  sort  of  feigned  name 
that  a  man  in  difficulties  would  give  among  us.  Was  he  a 
criminal  countryman  of  mine  ?  No  !  There  had  been  noth- 
ing foreign  in  his  accent  when  he  spoke.  Pure  English — 
there  could  be  no  doubt  of  that.  And  yet  he  had  given  a 
French  name.  Had  he  deliberately  insulted  my  nation?  Yes! 
Not  content  with  being  stained  by  innumerable  crimes,  he 
had  added  to  the  list  of  his  atrocities — he  had  insulted  my 
nation  ! 

"  Well  ?"  I  resumed.  "  We  have  left  this  undetected  ruf- 
fian deserted  in  the  public-house.  Is  he  there  still  ?" 

"  Bless  your  heart !"  cried  -the  old  nurse,  "  he  is  settled  in 
the  neighborhood.  He  has  taken  Browndown." 

O 

I  turned  to  Lucilla.  "  Browndown  belongs  to  Somebody," 
I  said,  hazarding  another  guess.  "  Did  Somebody  let  it  with- 
out a  reference  ?" 

"Browndown  belongs  to  a  gentleman  at  Brighton,"  an- 

O  C^  \J  t 

swered  Lucilla.  "  And  the  gentleman  was  referred  to  a  well- 
known  name  in  London — one  of  the  great  City  merchants. 
Here  is  the  most  provoking  part  of  the  whole  mystery.  The 
merchant  said,  '  I  have  known  Mr.  Dubourg  from  his  child- 
hood. He  has  reasons  for  wishing  to  live  in  the  strictest  re- 
tirement. I  answer  for  his  being  an  honorable  man,  to  whom 
you  can  safely  let  your  house.  More  than  this  I  am  not  au- 
thorized to  tell  you.'  My  father  knows  the  landlord  of 
Browndown ;  and  that  is  what  the  reference  said  to  him, 
word  for  word  !  Isn't  it  provoking?  The  house  was  let  for 
six  months,  certain,  the  next  day.  It  is  wretchedly  furnished. 
Mr.  Dnbonrg  has  had  several  things  that  he  wanted  sent 
from  Brighton.  Besides  the  furniture,  a  packing-case  from 
London  arrived  at  the  house  to-day.  It  was  so  strongly 


POOR   MISS   FIXCII.  33 

nailed  up  that  the  carpenter  had  to  be  sent  for  to  open  it. 
He  reports  that  the  case  was  full  of  thin  plates  of  gold  and 
silver;  and  it  was  accompanied  by  a  box  of  extraordinary 
tools,  the  use  of  which  was  a  mystery  to  the  carpenter  him- 
self. Mr.  Dubourg  locked  up  these  things  in  a  room  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket.  He  seemed 
to  be  pleased — he  whistled  a  tune,  and  said,  '  Now  we  shall 
do !'  The  landlady  at  the  Cross-Hands  is  our  authority  for 
this.  She  does  what  little  cooking  he  requires;  and  her 
daughter  makes  his  bed,  and  so  on.  They  go  to  him  in  the 
morning,  and  return  to  the  inn  in  the  evening.  He  has  no 
servants  with  him.  He  is  all  by  himself  at  night.  Isn't  it 
interesting  ?  A  mystery  in  real  life.  It  baffles  every 
body." 

"You  must  be  very  strange  people,  my  dear,"  I  said,  "to 
make  a  mystery  of  such  a  plain  case  as  this." 

"Plain!"  repeated  Lucilla,  in  amazement. 

"Certainly!  The  gold  and  silver  plates,  and  the  strange 
tools,  and  the  living  in  retirement,  and  the  sending  the  serv- 
ants away  at  night — all  point  to  the  same  conclusion.  My 
guess  is  the  right  one.  The  man  is  an  escaped  criminal;  and 
his  form  of  crime  is  coining  false  money.  He  has  been  dis- 
covered at  Exeter,  he  has  escaped  the  officers  of  justice,  and 
lie  is  now  going  to  begin  again  here.  You  can  do  as  you 
please.  If  /  happen  to  want  change,  I  won't  get  it  in  this 
neighborhood." 

O 

Lucilla  laid  herself  back  in  her  chair  again.  I  could  sec 
that  she  gave  me  up,  in  the  matter  of  Mr.  Dubourg,  as  a  per- 
son willfully  and  incorrigibly  wrong. 

"A  coiner  of  false  money  recommended  as  an  honorable 
man  by  one  of  the  first  merchants  in  London  !"  she  exclaim- 
ed. "  We  do  some  very  eccentric  things  in  England  occa- 
sionally ;  but  there  is  a  limit  to  our  nntional  madness,  Mad- 
ame Pratolungo,  and  you  have  reached  it.  Shall  we  have 
some  music  ?" 

She  spoke  a  little  sharply.  Mr. Dubourg  was  the  hero  of 
her  romance.  She  resented — seriously  resented — any  attempt 
on  my  part  to  lower  him  in  her  estimation. 

I  persisted  in  my  unfavorable  opinion  of  him,  nevertheless. 
.The  question  between  us  (as  I  might  have  told  her),  was  a 
question  of  believing  or  not  believing  in  the  merchant  of 

r»  2 


34  POOK   MISS   FINCH. 

London.  To  her  mind  it  was  a  sufficient  guarantee  of  his  in- 
tegrity that  lie  was  a  rich  man.  To  my  mind  (speaking  as  a 
good  Socialist),  that  very  circumstance  told  dead  against 
him.  A  capitalist  is  a  robber  of  one  sort,  and  a  coiner  is  a 
robber  of  another  sort.  Whether  the  capitalist  recommends 
the  coiner,  or  the  coiner  the  capitalist,  is  all  one  to  me.  In 
either  case  (to  quote  the  language  of  an  excellent  English 
play),  the  honest  people  are  the  soft,  easy  cushions  on  which 
these  knaves  repose  and  fatten.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  my 
tongue  to  put  this  large  and  liberal  view  of  the  subject  to 
Lucilla.  But  (alas !)  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  poor  child 
was  infected  by  the  narrow  prejudices  of  the  class  amidst 
whkh  she  lived.  How  could  I  find  it  in  my  heart  to  run  the 
risk  of  a  disagreement  between  us  on  the  first  day?  No — it 
was  not  to  be  done.  I  gave  the  nice  pretty  blind  girl  a  kiss. 
And  we  went  to  the  piano  together.  And  I  put  off  making 
a  good  Socialist  of  Lucilla  till  a  more  convenient  oppor- 
tunity. 

We  might  as  well  have  left  the  piano  unopened.  The  mu- 
sic was  a  failure. 

I  played  my  best.  From  Mozart  to  Beethoven.  From 
Beethoven  to  Schubert.  From  Schubert  to  Chopin.  She 
listened  with  all  the  will  in  the  world  to  be  pleased.  She 
thanked  me  again  and  again.  She  tried,  at  my  invitation,  to 
play  herself,  choosing  the  familiar  compositions  which  she 
knew  by  ear.  No!  The  abominable  Dubourg,  having  got 
the  uppermost  place  in  her  mind,  kept  it.  She  tried  and 
tried  and  tried,  and  could  do  nothing.  His  voice  was  still  in 
her  ears — the  only  music  which  could  possess  itself  of  her  at- 
tention that  night.  I  took  her  place,  and  began  to  play  again. 
She  suddenly  snatched  my  hands  off  the  keys.  "  Is  Zillah 
here?"  she  whispered.  I  told  her  Zillah  had  left  the  room. 
She  laid  her  charming  head  on  my  shoulder,  and  sighed  hys- 
terically. "I  can't  help  thinking  of  him,"  she  burst  out.  "I 
am  miserable  for  the  first  time  in  my  life — no!  I  am  happy 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  Oh,  what  must  you  think  of  me! 
I  don't  know  what -I  am  talking  about.  Why  did  you  en- 
courage him  to  speak  to  us?  I  might  never  have  heard  his 
voice  but  for  you."  She  lifted  her  head  again,  with  a  little 
shiver,  and  composed  herself.  One  of  her  hands  wandered 
here  and  there  over  the  keys  of  the  piano,  playing  softly. 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  35 

"  His  charming  voice !"  she  whispered,  dreamily,  while  she 
played.  "  Oh,  his  charming  voice  !"  She  paused  again.  Her 
hand  dropped  from  the  piano  and  took  mine.  "Is  this  love?" 
she  said,  half  to  herself,  half  to  me. 

My  duty  as  a  respectable  woman  lay  clearly  before  me — 
my  duty  was  to  tell  her  a  lie. 

"It  is  nothing,  my  dear, but  too  much  excitement, and  too 
much  fatigue,"  I  said.  "To-morrow  you  shall  be  my  young 
lady  again.  To-night  you  must  be  only  my  child.  Come  and 
let  me  put  you  to  bed." 

She  yielded  with  a  weary  sigh.  Ah,  how  lovely  she  looked 
in  her  pretty  night-dress,  on  her  knees  at  the  bedside — the 
innocent,  afflicted  creature — saying  her  prayers ! 

I  am,  let  me  own,  an  equally  headlong  woman  at  loving 
and  hating.  When  I  had  left  her  for  the  night,  I  could  hard- 
ly have  felt  more  tenderly  interested  in  her  if  she  had  been 
really  a  child  of  my  own.  You  have  met  with  people  of  my 
sort — unless  you  are  a  very  forbidding  person  indeed — who 
have  talked  to  you  in  the  most  confidential  manner  of  all 
their  private  affairs  on  meeting  you  in  a  railway  carriage,  or 
sitting  next  to  you  at  a  table  d'hote.  For  myself,  I  believe 
I  shall  go  on  running  up  sudden  friendships  with  strangers  to 
my  dying  day.  Infamous  Dubourg !  If  I  could  have  got 
into  Browndown  that  night,!  should  have  liked  to  have  done 
to  him  what  a  Mexican  maid  of  mine  (at  the  Central  Amer- 
ican period  of  my  career)  did  to  her  drunken  husband,  who 
was  a  kind  of  peddler  dealing  in  whips  and  sticks.  She  sewed 
him  strongly  up  one  night  in  the  sheet  while  he  lay  snoring: 
off  his  liquor  in  bed ;  and  then  she  took  his  whole  stock  in: 
trade  out  of  the  corner  of  the  room  and  broke  it  on  him,  to 
the  last  article  on  sale,  until  he  was  beaten  to  a  jelly  from 
head  to  foot. 

Not  having  this  resource  open  to  me,  I  sat  myself  down 
in  my  bedroom  to  consider — if  the  matter  of  Dubourg  went 
any  farther — what  it  was  my  business  to  do  next. 

I  have  already  mentioned  that  Lucilla  and  I  had  idled 
away  the  whole  afternoon,  womanlike,  in  talking  of  our- 
selves. You  will  best  understand  what  course  my  reflec- 
tions took  if  I  here  relate  the  chief  particulars  which  Lucilla 
communicated  to  me  concerning  her  own  singular  position 
in  her  father's  house. 


POOR    MISS  FINCH. 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTH. 

A    CAGE  •  OF    FINCHES. 

LARGE  families  are — as  my  experience  goes — of  two  sorts. 
There  are  the  families  whose  members  all  admire  each  other. 
And  there  are  the  families  whose  members  all  detest  each 
other.  For  myself  I  prefer  the  second  sort.  Their  quarrels 
are  their  own  affair;  and  they  have  a  merit  which  the  first 
sort  are  never  known  to  possess — the  merit  of  being  some- 
times able  to  see  the  good  qualities  of  persons  who  do  not 
possess  the  .advantage  of  being  related  to  them  by  blood. 
The  families  whose  members  all  admire  each  other  are  fam- 
ilies saturated  with  insufferable  conceit.  You  happen  to 
speak  of  Shakspeare  among  these  people  as  a  type  of  su- 
preme intellectual  capacity.  A  female  member  of  the  fam- 
ily will  not  fail  to  convey  to  you  that  you  would  have  illus- 
trated your  meaning  far  more  completely  if  you  had  refer- 
red to  her  "dear  papa,"  You  are  walking  out  with  a  male 
member  of  the  household,  and  you  say  of  a  woman  who 
passes,  "  What  a  charming  creature !"  Your  companion 
smiles  at  your  simplicity,  and  wonders  whether  you  have 
ever  seen  his  sister  when  she  is  dressed  for  a  ball.  These' 
are  the  families  who  can  not  be  separated  without  corre- 
sponding with  each  other  every  day.  They  read  you  ex- 
tracts from  their  letters,  and  say,  "  Where  is  the  professional 
writer  who  can  equal  this?"  They  talk  of  their  private  af- 
fairs in  your  presence,  and  appear  to  think  that  you  ought 
to  be  interested  too.  They  enjoy  their  own  jokes  across 
you  at  table,  and  wonder  how  it  is  that  you  are  not  amused. 
In  domestic  circles  of  this  sort  the  sisters  sit  habitually  on 
the  brothers'  knees;  and  the  husbands  inquire  into  the 
wives'  ailments  in  public  as  unconcernedly  as  if  they  were 
closeted  in  their  own  room.  WThen  we  arrive  at  a  more  ad- 
vanced stnge  of  civilization,  the  state  will  supply  cages  for 
these  intolerable  people;  and  notices  will  be  posted  at  the 
corners  of  streets,  "Beware  of  number  twelve:  a  family  in 
a  state  of  mutual  admiration  is  hung  up  there!" 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  3V 

I  gathered  from  Lucilla  that  the  Finches  were  of  the  sco- 
ond  order  of  large  families,  as  mentioned  above.  Hardly 
one  of  the  members  of  this  domestic  group  was  on  speaking 
terms  with  the  other.  And  some  of  them  had  been  sepa- 
rated for  years  without  once  troubling  her  Majesty's  Post- 
office  to  convey  even  the  slightest  expression  of  sentiment 
from  one  to  the  other. 

The  first  wife  of  Reverend  Finch  was  a  Miss  Batchford. 
The  members  of  her  family  (limited  ;it  the  time  of  the  mar- 
riage to  her  brother  and  her  sister)  strongly  disapproved  of 
her  choice  of  a  husband.  The  rank  of  a  Finch  (I  laugh  at 
these  contemptible  distinctions!)  was  decided,  in  this  case, 
to  be  not  equal  to  the  rank  of  a  Batchford.  Nevertheless, 
Miss  married.  Her  brother  and  sister  declined  to  be  pres- 
ent at  the  ceremony.  First  quarrel. 

Lucilla  was  born.  Reverend  Finch's  elder  brother  (on 
speaking  terms  with  no  other  member  of  the  family)  inter- 
fered with  a  Christian  proposal  —  namely,  to  shake  hands 
across  the  baby's  cradle.  Adopted  by  the  magnanimous 
Batchfords.  First  reconciliation. 

Time  passed.  Reverend  Finch — then  officiating  in  a  poor 
curacy  near  a  great  manufacturing  town — felt  a  want  (the 
want  of  money),  and  took  a  liberty  (the  liberty  of  attempt- 
ing to  borrow  of  his  brother-in-law).  Mr.  Batchford,  being 
a  rich  man,  regarded  this  overture,  it  is  needless  to  say,  in 
the  light  of  an  insult.  Miss  Batchford  sided  with  her  broth- 
er. Second  quarrel. 

Time  passed,  as  before.  Mrs.  Finch  the  first  died.  Rev- 
erend Finch's  elder  brother  (still  at  daggers  drawn  with  the 
other  members  of  the  family)  made  a  second  Christian  pro- 
posal —  namely,  to  shake  hands  across  the  wife's  grave. 
Adopted  once  more  by  the  bereaved  Batchfords.  Second 
reconciliation. 

Another  lapse  of  time.  Reverend  Finch,  left  a  widower 
with  one  daughter,  became  personally  acquainted  with  an 
inhabitant  of  the  great  city  near  which  he  ministered,  who 
was  also  a  widower  with  one  daughter.  The  status  of  the 
parent  in  this  case — social-political-religious — was  Shoemak- 
er-Radical-Baptist. Reverend  Finch,  still  wanting  money, 
swallowed  it  all,  and  married  the  daughter,  with  a  dowry  of 
three  thousand  pounds.  This  proceeding  alienated  from 


3S  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

him  forever,  not  the  Batchfords  only,  but  the  peace-making 
elder  brother  as  well.  This  excellent  Christian  ceased  to  be 
on  speaking  terms  now  with  his  brother  the  clergyman  as 
well  as  with  all  the  rest  of  the  family.  The  complete  isola- 
tion of  Reverend  Finch  followed.  Regularly  every  year  did 
the  second  Mrs.  Finch  afford  opportunities  of  shaking  hands, 
not  only  over  one  cradle,  but  sometimes  over  two.  Vain 
and  meritorious  fertility !  Nothing  came  of  it  but  a  kind 
of  compromise.  Lucilla,  quite  overlooked  among  the  rec- 
tor's rapidly  increasing  second  family,  was  allowed  to  visit 
her  maternal  uncle  and  aunt  at  stated  periods  in  every  year. 
Born,  to  all  appearance,  with  the  full  possession  of  her  sight, 
the  poor  child  had  become  incurably  blind  before  she  was  a 
year  old.  In  all  other  respects  she  presented  a  striking  re- 
semblance to  her  mother.  Bachelor  Uncle  Batchford  and 
his  old  maiden  sister,  both  conceived  the  strongest  affection 
for  the  child.  "  Our  niece,  Lucilla,"  they  said, "  has  justified 
our  fondest  hopes — she  is  a  Batchford,  not  a  Finch !"  Lu- 
cilla's  father  (promoted  by  this  time  to  the  rectory  of  Dim- 
church)  let  them  talk.  "Wait  a  bit,  and  money  will  come 
of  it,"  was  all  lie  said.  Truly,  money  was  wanted ! — with 
fruitful  Mrs.  Finch  multiplying  cradles  year  after  year,  till 
the  doctor  himself  (employed  on  contract)  got  tired  of  it, 
and  said  one  day,  "It  is  not  true  that  there  is  an  end  to  ev- 
ery tiling;  there  is  no  end  to  the  multiplying  capacity  of 
Mrs.  Finch." 

Lucilla  grew  up  from  childhood  to  womanhood.  She  was 
twenty  years  old  before  her  father's  expectations  were  real- 
ized, and  the  money  came  of  it  at  last. 

Uncle  Batchford  died  a  single  man.  He  divided  his  for- 
tune between  his  maiden  sister  and  his  niece.  When  she 
came  of  age  Lucilla  was  to  have  an  income  of  fifteen  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year — on  certain  conditions,  which  the  will 
set  forth  at  great  length.  The  effect  of  these  conditions  was 
(first)  to  render  it  absolutely  impossible  for  Reverend  Finch, 
under  any  circumstances  whatever,  to  legally  inherit  a  single 
farthing  of  the  money,  and  (secondly)  to  detach  Lucilla  from 
her  father's  household,  and  to  place  her  under  the  care  of 
her  maiden  aunt,  so  long  as  she  remained  unmarried,  for  a 
period  of  three  months  in  every  year. 

The  will  avowed  the  object  of  this  last  condition  in  the 


POOR   3IISS    FINCH.  39 

plainest  words.  "I  die  as  I  have  lived"  (wrote  Uncle 
Batchford),  "a  High-Churchman  and  a  Tory.  My  legacy  to 
ray  niece  shall  only  take  eftect  on  these  terms — namely,  that 
she  shall  be  removed  at  certain  stated  periods  from  the  Dis- 
senting and  Radical  influences  to  which  she  is  subjected  un- 
der her  father's  roof,  and  shall  be  placed  under  the  care  of 
an  English  gentlewoman  who  unites  to  the  advantages  of 
birth  and  breeding  the  possession  of  high  and  honorable 
principles,"  et  caetera,  et  caetera.  Can  you  conceive  Rever 
end  Finch's  feelings,  sitting,  with  his  daughter  by  his  side, 
among  the  company,  while  the  will  was  read,  and  hearing 
this?  He  got  up,  like  a  true  Englishman,  and  made  them  a 
speech.  "Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I  admit  that  I 
am  a  Liberal  in  politics,  and  that  rny  wife's  family  are  Dis- 
senters. As  an  example  of  the  principles  thus  engendered 
in  my  household,  I  beg  to  inform  you  that  my  daughter  ac- 
cepts this  legacy  with  my  full  permission,  and  that  I  for- 
give Mr.  Batchford."  With  that,  he  walked  out,  with  his 
daughter  on  his  arm.  He  had  heard  enough,  please  to  ob- 
serve, to  satisfy  him  that  Lucilla  (while  she  lived  unmarried) 
could  do  what  she  liked  with  her  income.  Before  they  had 
got  back  to  Dimchurch,  Reverend  Finch  had  completed  a 
domestic  arrangement  which  permitted  his  daughter  to  oc- 
cupy a  perfectly  independent  position  in  the  rectory,  and 
which  placed  in  her  lather's  pockets— as  Miss  Finch's  contri- 
bution to  the  housekeeping — five  hundred  a  year. 

(Do  you  know  what  I  felt  when  I  heard  this?  I  it-It  the 
deepest  regret  that  Finch  of  the  liberal  principles  had  not 
made  a  third  with  my  poor  Pratolungo  and  me  in  Central 
America.  With  him  to  advise  us,  we  should  have  saved  the 
sacred  cause  of  Freedom  without  spending  a  single  farthing 
on  it!) 

The  old  side  of  the  rectory,  hitherto  uninhabited,  was  put 
in  order  and  furnished — of  course  at  Lucilla' s  expense.  On 
her  twenty-first  birthday  the  repairs  were  completed;  the 
first  installment  of  the  housekeeping  money  was  paid;  and 
the  daughter  was  established  as  an  independent  lodger  in 

•C*  1  O 

her  own  father's  house! 

In  order  to  thoroughly  appreciate  Finch's  ingenuity,  it  is 
necessary  to  add  here  that  Lucilla  had  shown,  as  she  grew 
up,  an  increasing  dislike  of  living  at  home.  In  her  blind 


40  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

state,  the  endless  turmoil  of  the  children  distracted  her. 
She  and  her  step-mother  did  not  possess  a  single  sympathy 
in  common.  Her  relations  with  her  father  were  in  much 
the  same  condition.  She  conld  compassionate  his  poverty, 
and  she  could  treat  him  with  the  forbearance  and  respect 
due  to  him  from  his  child.  As  to  really  venerating  and  lov- 
ing him — the  less  said  about  that  the  better.  Her  happiest 
days  had  been  the  days  she  spent  with  her  uncle  and  aunt; 
her  visits  to  the  Batchibrds  had  grown  to  be  longer  and 
longer  visits  with  every  succeeding  year.  If  the  father,  in 
appealing  to  the  daughter's  sympathies,  had  not  dexterously 
contrived  to  unite  the  preservation  of  her  independence  with 
the  continuance  of  her  residence  under  his  roof,  she  would, 
on  coming  of  age,  either  have  lived  altogether  with  her  aunt, 
or  have  set  up  an  establishment  of  her  own.  As  it  was,  the 
rector  had  secured  his  five  hundred  a  year  on  terms  accept- 
able to  both  sides — and,  more  than  that,  he  had  got  her  safe 
under  his  own  eye.  For,  remark,  there  was  one  terrible  pos- 
sibility threatening  him  in  the  future — the  possibility  of  Lu- 
cilla's  marriage ! 

Such  was  the  strange  domestic  position  of  this  interesting 
creature  at  the  time  when  I  entered  the  house. 

You  will  now  understand  how  completely  puzzled  I  was 
when  I  recalled  what  had  happened  on  the  evening  of  my 
arrival,  and  when  I  asked  myself — in  the  matter  of  the  mys- 
terious stranger — what  course  I  was  to  take  next.  I  had 
found  Lucilla  a  solitary  being,  helplessly  dependent,  in  her 
blindness,  on  others ;  and  in  that  sad  condition — without  a 
mother,  without  a  sister,  without  a  friend  even  in  whose 
sympathies  she  could  take  refuge,  in  whose  advice  she  could 
trust — I  had  produced  a  first  favorable  impression  on  her: 
I  had  won  her  liking  at  once,  as  she  had  won  mine.  I  had 
accompanied  her  on  an  evening  walk,  innocent  of  all  suspi- 
cion of  what  was  going  on  in  her  mind.  I  had  by  pure  ac- 
cident enabled  a  stranger  to  intensify  the  imaginary  inter- 
est which  she  felt  in  him,  by  provoking  him  to  speak  in  her 
hearing  for  the  first  time.  In  a  moment  of  hysterical  agita- 
tion— and  in  sheer  despair  of  knowing  who  else  to  confide  in 
— the  poor,  foolish,  blind,  lonely  «rirl  had  opened  her  heart  to 
me.  What  was  I  to  do? 

If  the  case  had  been  an  ordinary  one,  the  whole  affair 
would  have  been  simply  ridiculous. 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  4i 

But  the  case  of  Lucilla  was  not  the  case  of  girls  in  gen- 
eral. 

The  minds  of  the  blind  are,  by  cruel  necessity,  forced  in- 
ward on  themselves  They  li\e  apart  from  us  —  ah,  how 
hopelessly  far  apart ! — in  their  own  dark  sphere,  of  which 
we  know  nothing.  What  relief  could  come  to  Lucilla  from 
the  world  outside?  None!  It  was  part  of  her  desolate  lib- 
erty to  be  free  to  dwell  unremittingly  on  the  ideal  creature 
of  her  own  dream.  Within  the  narrow  limit  of  the  one  im- 
pression that  it  had  been  possible  for  her  to  derive  of  this 
man — the  impression  of  the  beauty  of  his  voice — her  fancy 
was  left  to  work  unrestrained  in  the  changeless  darkness  of 
her  life.  What  a  picture !  I  shudder  as  I  draw  it.  Oh 
yes,  it  is  easy,  I  know,  to  look  at  it  the  other  way ;  to  laugh 
at  the  folly  of  a  girl  who  first  excites  her  imagination  about 
a  total  stranger,  and  then,  when  she  hears  him  speak,  falls  in 
love  with  his  voice!  But  add  that  the  girl  is  blind;  that 
the  girl  lives  habitually  in  the  world  of  her  own  imagina- 
tion ;  that  the  girl  has  nobody  at  home  who  can  exercise  a 
wholesome  influence  over  her.  Is  there  nothing  pitiable  in 
such  a  state  of  things  as  this?  For  myself — though  I  come 
of  a  light-hearted  nation  that  laughs  at  every  thing — I  saw 
my  own  face  looking  horribly  grave  and  old  as  I  sat  before 
the  glass  that  night  brushing  my  hair. 

I  looked  at  my  bed.  Bah  !  what  was  the  use  of  going  to 
bed? 

She  was  her  own  mistress.  She  was  perfectly  free  to  take 
her  next  walk  to  Browndown  alone,  and  to  place  herself,  for 
all  I  knew  to  the  contrary,  at  the  mercy  of  a  dishonorable 
and  designing  man.  What  was  I?  Only  her  companion. 
I  had  no  right  to  interfere — and  yet,  if  any  tiling  happened, 
I  should  be  blamed.  It  is  so  easy  to  say, "  You  ought  to 
have  done  something."  Who  could  I  consult?  The  worthy 
old  nurse  only  held  the  position  of  servant.  Could  I  ad- 
dress myself  to  the  lymphatic  lady  with  the  bnby  in  one 
hand  and  the  novel  in  the  other?  Absurd!  Her  step- 
mother was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Her  father?  Judging 
by  hearsay,  I  had  not  derived  a  favorable  impression  of  the 
capacity  of  Reverend  Finch  for  interfering  successfully  in  a 
matter  of  this  sort.  However,  he  tea*  her  father;  and  I 
could  feel  my  way  cautiously  with  him  at  first.  Hearing 


4ii  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

Zillah  moving  about  the  corridor,  I  went  out  to  her.  In  the 
course  of  a  little  gossip  I  introduced  the  name  of  the  master 
of  the  house.  How  was  it  I  had  not  seen  him  yet  ?  For  an 
excellent  reason.  He  had  gone  to  visit  a  friend  at  Brighton. 
It  was  then  Tuesday.  He  was  expected  back  on  "sermon- 
day" — that  is  to  say,  on  Saturday  in  the  same  week. 

I  returned  to  my  room  a  little  out  of  temper.  In  this 
state  my  mind  works  with  wonderful  freedom.  I  had  an- 
other of  my  inspirations.  Mr.  Dubourg  had  taken  the  lib- 
erty of  speaking  to  me  that  evening.  Good.  I  determined 
to  go  alone  to  Browndown  the  next  morning,  and  take  the 
liberty  of  speaking  to  Mr.  Dubourg. 

Was  this  resolution  inspired  solely  by  my  interest  in  Lu- 
cilla?  Or  had  my  own  curiosity  been  all  the  time  working 
under  the  surface,  and  influencing  the  course  of  my  reflec- 
tions unknown  to  myself?  I  went  to  bed  without  inquiring. 
I  recommend  you  to  go  to  bed  without  inquiring  too. 


CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTH. 

DAYLIGHT     VIEW     OP     THE     MAN. 

WHEN  I  put  out  my  candle  that  night  I  made  a  mistake 
— I  trusted  entirely  to  myself  to  wake  in  good  time  in  the 
morning.  I  ought  to  have  told  Zillah  to  call  me. 

Hours  passed  before  I  could  close  my  eyes.  It  was  broken 
rest  when  it  came  until  the  day  dawned.  Then  I  fell  asleep 
at  last  in  good  earnest.  When  I  awoke,  and  looked  at  my 
watch,  I  was  amazed  to  find  that  it  was  ten  o'clock. 

I  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  rang  for  the  old  nurse.  Was 
Lucilla  at  home?  No.  She  had  gone  out  for  a  little  walk. 
By  herself?  Yes — by  herself.  In  what  direction  ?  Up  the 
valley,  toward  Browndown. 

I  instantly  arrived  at  my  own  conclusion. 

She  had  got  the  start  of  me  —  thanks  to  my  laziness  in 
sleeping  away  the  precious  hours  of  the  morning  in  bed. 
The  one  thing  to  do  was  to  follow  her  as  speedily  ns  possi- 
ble. In  half  an  hour  more  I  was  out  for  a  little  walk  by 
myself — and  (what  do  you  think?)  my  direction  also  was  up 
the  valley,  toward  Browndown. 

A  pastoral  solitude  reigned  round  the  lonely  little  house. 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  43 

I  went  on  beyond  it  into  the  next  winding  of  the  valley. 
Not  a  human  creature  was  to  be  seen.  I  returned  to  Brown- 
down  to  reconnoitre.  Ascending  the  rising  ground  on  which 
the  house  was  built,  I  approached  it  from  the  back.  The 
windows  were  all  open.  I  listened.  (Do  you  suppose  I  felt 
scruples  m  such  an  emergency  as  this?  Oh,  pooh!  pooh! 
who  but  a  fool  would  have  felt  any  thing  of  the  sort!)  I 
listened  with  both  my  ears.  Through  a  window  at  the  side 
of  the  house  I  heard  the  sound  of  voices.  Advancing  noise- 
lessly on  the  turf,  I  heard  the  voice  of  Dubourg.  He  was 
answered  by  a  woman.  Aha,  I  had  caught  her!  Lucilla 
herself! 

"  Wonderful !"  I  heard  him  say.  "  I  believe  you  have 
eyes  in  the  ends  of  your  fingers.  Take  this,  now,  and  try  if 
you  can  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"A  little  vase,"  she  answered,  speaking,  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor,  as  composedly  as  if  she  had  known  him  for 
years.  "Wait!  what  metal  is  it?  Silver?  No.  Gold. 
Did  you  really  make  this  yourself,  as  well  as  the  box?" 

"  Yes.  It  is  an  odd  taste  of  mine,  isn't  it  ?  to  be  fond  of 
chasing  in  gold  and  silver.  Years  ago  I  met  with  a  man  in 
Italy  who  taught  me.  It  amused  me.  then,  and  it  amuses 
me  now.  When  I  was  recovering  from  an  illness  last  spring 
I  shaped  that  vase  out  of  the  plain  metal,  and  made  the  or- 
naments on  it." 

"Another  mystery  revealed!"  she  exclaimed.  "Now  I 
know  what  you  wanted  with  those  gold  and  silver  plates 
that  came  to  you  from  London.  Are  you  aware  of  what  a 
character  you  have  got  here?  There  are  some  of  us  who 
suspect  you  of  coining  false  money  !" 

They  both  burst  out  laughing  as  gayly  as  a  couple  of 
children.  I  declare  I  wished  myself  one  of  the  party  !  But 
no.  I  had  my  duty  to  do  as  a  respectable  woman.  My 
duty  was  to  steal  a  little  nearer,  and  sec  if  any  familiarities 
were  passing  between  these  two  merry  young  people.  One- 
half  of  the  open  window  was  sheltered,  on  the  outer  side,  by 
a  Venetian  blind.  I  stood  behind  the  blind  and  peeped  in. 
(Duty  !  oh,  dear  me,  painful  but  necessary  duty  !)  Dubourg 
was  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  window.  Lucilla  faced  me 
opposite  to  him.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  pleasure. 
She  held  in  her  lap  a  pretty  little  golden  vase.  Her  clever 


44  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

fingers  were  passing  over  it  rapidly,  exactly  as  they  had 
passed,  the  previous  evening,  over  my  face. 

'•Shall  I  tell  you  what  the  pattern  is  on  your  vase?"  she 
went  on. 

"  Can  you  really  do  that  ?" 

"You  shall  judge  for  yourself.  The  pattern  is  made  of 
leaves,  with  birds  placed  among  them,  at  intervals.  Stop ! 
I  think  I  have  felt  leaves  like  these  on  the  old  side  of  the 
rectory,  against  the  wall.  Ivy  ?" 

"Amazing  !  it  is  ivy." 

"The  birds,"  she  resumed.  "I  sha'n't  be  satisfied  till  I 
have  told  you  what  the  birds  are.  Haven't  I  got  silver  birds 
like  them — only  much  larger — for  holding  pepper  and  mus- 
tard and  sugar  and  so  on  ?  Owls  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
cry  of  triumph.  "Little  owls,  sitting  in  ivy  nests.  What  a 
delightful  pattern !  I  never  heard  of  any  thing  like  it  before." 

"Keep  the  vase,"  he  said.  "You  will  honor  me,  you  will 
delight  me,  if  you  will  keep  the  vase." 

She  rose  and  shook  her  head — without  giving  him  back 
the  vase,  however. 

"I  might  take  it,  if  you  were  not  a  stranger,"  she  said. 
"  Why  don't  you  tell  us  who  you  are,  and  what  your  reason 
is  for  living  all  by  yourself  in  this  dull  place?" 

He  stood  before  her,  with  his  head  down,  and  sighed  bitterly. 

"  I  know  I  ought  to  explain  myself,"  he  answered.  "  I 
can't  be  surprised  if  people  are  suspicious  of  me."  He 
paused,  and  added,  very  earnestly,  "  I  can't  tell  it  to  you. 
Oh  no,  not  to  you  /" 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me." 

She  felt  for  the  table  with  her  ivory  cane,  and  put  the 
vase  down  on  it  very  unwillingly. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Diibourg,"  she.  said. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  room  for  her  in  silence.  Wait- 
ing close  against  the  side  of  the  house,  I  saw  them  appear 
under  the  porch  and  cross  the  little  walled  inclosure  in  front. 
As  she  stepped  out  on  the  open  turf  beyond  she  turned  and 
spoke  to  him  again. 

"If  you  won't  tell  me  your  secret,"  she  said, "will  you  tell 
it  to  some  one  else?  Will  you  tell  it  to  a  friend  of  mine?" 

"To  what  friend?"  he  asked. 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  45 

"To  the  lady  whom  you  met  with  me  last  night." 

He  hesitated.     "  I  am  afraid  I  offended  the  lady,"  he  said. 

"So  much  the  more  reason  for  your  explaining  yourself," 
she  rejoined.  "If  you  will  only  satisfy  her,  I  might  ask  you 
to  come  and  see  us — I  might  even  take  the  vase."  With 
that  strong  hint  she  actually  gave  him  her  hand  at  parting. 
Her  perfect  self-possession,  her  easy  familiarity  with  this 
stranger — so  bold  and  yet  so  innocent — petrified  me.  "I 
shall  send  my  friend  to  you  this  morning,"  she  said,  imperi- 
ously, striking  her  cane  on  the  turf.  "I  insist  on  your  telling 
her  the  whole  truth." 

With  that  she  signed  to  him  that  he  was  to  follow  her  no 
farther,  and  went  her  way  back  to  the  village. 

Does  it  not  surprise  you,  as  it  surprised  me?  Instead  of 
her  blindness  making  her  nervous  in  the  presence  of  a  man 
unknown  to  her,  it  appeared  to  have  exactly  the  contrary 
effect.  It  made  her  fearless. 

He  stood  on  the  spot  where  she  had  left  him,  watching  her 
as  she  receded  in  the  distance.  His  manner  toward  her,  in 
the  house  and  out  of  the  house,  had  exhibited,  it  is  only  lair 
to  say,  the  utmost  consideration  and  respect.  Whatever 
shyness  there  had  been  between  them  was  shyness  entirely 
on  his  side.  I  had  a  short  stuff  dress  on,  which  made  no 
noise  over  the  grass.  I  skirted  the  wall  of  the  inclosure,  and 
approached  him  unsuspected  from  behind.  "  The  charming 
creature !"  he  said  to  himself,  still  following  her  with  his 
eyes.  As  the  words  passed  his  lips  I  touched  him  smartly 
on  the  shoulder  with  my  parasol. 

"Mr.  Dubourg,"  I  said,  "  I  am  waiting  to  hear  the  truth." 

He  started  violently,  and  confronted  me  in  speechless  dis- 
may, his  color  coming  and  going  like  the  color  of  a  young 
girl.  Any  body  who  understands  women  will  understand 
that  this  behavior  on  his  part,  far  from  softening  me  toward 
him,  only  encouraged  me  to  bully  him. 

"In  your  present  position  in  this  place,  Sir,"  I  went  on, 
"  do  you  think  it  honorable  conduct  on  your  part  to  decoy  a 
young  lady,  to  whom  you  are  a  perfect  stranger,  into  your 
house — a  young  lady  who  claims,  in  right  of  her  sad  afflic- 
tion, even  more  than  the  usual  forbearance  and  respect  which 
a  gentleman  owes  to  her  sex  ?" 

His  shifting  color  settled  for  the  time  into  an  angry  red. 


46  POOE   MISS   FINCH. 

"  You  are  doing  me  a  great  injustice,  ma'am,"  he  answered. 
"It  is  a  shame  to  say  that  I  have  failed  in  respect  to  the 
young  lady.  I  feel  the  sincerest  admiration  and  compassion 
for  her.  Circumstances  justify  me  in  what  I  have  done.  I 
could  not  have  acted  otherwise.  I  refer  you  to  the  young 
lady  herself." 

His  voice  rose  higher  and  higher.  He  was  thoroughly 
offended  with  me.  Need  I  add  (seeing  the  prospect  not  far 
off  of  his  bullying  me)  that  I  unblushingly  shifted  my  ground, 
and  tried  a  little  civility  next? 

"If  I  have  done  you  an  injustice,  Sir,  I  ask  your  pardon," 
I  answered.  "Having  said  so  much, I  have  only  to  add  that 
I  shall  be  satisfied  if  I  hear  what  the  circumstances  are  from 
yourself." 

This  soothed  his  offended  dignity.  His  gentler  manner 
began  to  show  itself  again. 

"The  truth  is,"  he  said,  "that  I  owe  my  introduction  to 
the  young  lady  to  an  ill-tempered  little  dog  belonging  to 
the  people  at  the  inn.  The  dog  had  followed  the  person  here 
who  attends  on  me;  and  it  startled  the  lady  by  flying  out 
and  barking  at  her  as  she  passed  this  house.  After  I  had 
driven  away  the  dog  I  begged  her  to  come  in  and  sit  down 
until  she  had  recovered  herself.  Am  I  to  blame  for  doing 
that?  I  don't  deny  that  I  felt  the  deepest  interest  in  her, 
and  that  I  did  my  best  to  amuse  her  while  she  honored  me  by 
remaining  in  my  house.  May  I  ask  if  I  have  satisfied  you?" 

With  the  best  will  in  the  world  to  maintain  my  unfavora- 
ble opinion  of  him,  I  was,  by  this  time,  fairly  forced  to  ac- 
knowledge to  myself  that  the  opinion  was  wrong.  His  ex- 
planation was,  in  tone  and  manner,  as  well  as  in  language, 
the  explanation  of  a  gentleman. 

And,  besides — though  he  was  a  little  too  effeminate  for  my 
taste — he  really  was  such  a  handsome  young  man !  His 
hair  was  of  a  fine  bright  chestnut  color,  with  a  natural  curl 
in  it.  His  eyes  were  of  the  lightest  brown  I  had"  ever  seen 
— with  a  singularly  winning,  gentle,  modest  expression  in 
them.  As  for  his  complexion — so  creamy  and  spotless  and 
fair — he  had  no  right  to  it:  it  ought  to  have  been  a  woman's 

O  ?J 

complexion,  or  at  least  a  boy's.  He  looked,  indeed,  more 
like  a  boy  than  a  man  ;  his  smooth  face  was  quite  uncovered, 
either  by  beard,  whisker,  or  mustache.  If  he  ba-i  VMH!  me, 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  47 

I  should  have  guessed  him  (though  he  was  really  three  yeara 
older;  to  have  been  younger  than  Lucilla. 

"Our  acquaintance  has  begun  rather  oddly,  Sir,"  I  said. 
"You  spoke  strangely  to  me  lust  night;  and  I  have  spoke:: 
hastily  to  you  this  morning.  Accept  my  excuses — and  let 
us  try  if  we  can't  do  each  other  justice  in  the  end.  I  have 
something  more  to  say  to  you  before  we  part.  Will  you 
think  me  a  very  extraordinary  woman  if  I  suggest  that  you 
may  as  well  invite  me  next  to  take  a  chair  in  your  house?" 

He  laughed  with  the  pleasantest  good  temper,  and  led  the 
way  in. 

We  entered  the  room  in  which  he  had  received  Lucilla, 
and  sat  down  together  on  the  two  chairs  near  the  window — 
with  this  difference,  that  I  contrived  to  possess  myself  of  the 
seat  which  he  had  occupied,  and  so  to  place  him  with  his 
lace  to  the  light. 

" Mr.  Dubourg,"  I  began,  "you  will  already  have  guessed 
that  I  overheard  what  Miss  Finch  said  to  you  at  parting?" 

He  bowed  in  silent  acknowledgment  that  it  was  so,  and 
began  to  toy  nervously  with  the  gold  vase  which  Lucilla 
had  left  on  the  table. 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do?"  I  went  on.  "You  have 
spoken  of  the  interest  you  feel  in  my  young  friend.  If  it  is 
a  true  interest,  it  will  lead  you  to  merit  her  good  opinion  by 
complying  with  her  request.  Tell  me  plainly,  if  you  please. 
Will  you  come  and  see  us,  in  the  character  of  a  gentleman 
who  has  satisfied  two  ladies  that  they  can  receive  him  as  a 
neighbor  and  a  friend?  Or  will  you  oblige  me  to  warn  the 
rector  of  Dimchurch  that  his  daughter  is  in  danger  of  per- 
mitting a  doubtful  character  to  force  his  acquaintance  on  her?" 

He  put  the  vase  back  on  the  table  and  turned  deadly  pale. 

"  If  you  knew  what  I  have  suffered,"  he  said  ;  "  if  you  had 
gone  through  what  I  have  been  compelled  to  endure —  '  His 
voice  failed  him;  his  soft  brown  eyes  moistened;  his  head 
drooped.  He  said  no  more. 

In  common  with  all  women,  I  like  a  man  to  be  a  man. 
There  was,  to  my  mind,  something  weak  and  womanish  in 
the  manner  in  which  this  Dubourg  met  the  advance  which 
I  had  made  to  him.  He  not  only  failed  to  move  my  pity — 
lie  was  in  danger  of  stirring  up  my  contempt. 

"I  too  have  suffered,"  I  answered.     "I  too  have  been  com- 


48  POOK    MISS    FIXCII. 

polled  to  endure.  But  there  is  this  difference  between  us. 
My  courage  is  not  worn  out.  In  your  place,  if  I  knew  myself 
to  be  an  honorable  man,  I  would  not  allow  the  breath  of 
suspicion  to  rest  on  me  for  an  instant.  Cost  what  it  might, 
I  would  vindicate  myself.  I  should  be  ashamed  to  cry.  I 
should  speak." 

That  stung  him.     He  started  up  on  his  feet. 

"Have  you  been  stared  at  by  hundreds  of  cruel  eyes?"  he 
burst  out,  passionately.  "  Have  you  been  pointed  at  without 
mercy  wherever  you  go?  Have  you  been  put  in  the  pillory 
of  the  newspapers  ?  Has  the  photograph  proclaimed  your 
infamous  notoriety  in  all  the  shop  windows?"  He  dropped 
back  into  his  chair,  and  wrung  his  hands  in  a  frenzy.  "Oh, 
the  public!"  he  exclaimed — "the  horrible  public!  I  can't 
get  away  from  them.  I  can't  hide  myself  even  here.  You 
have  had  your  stare  at  me  like  the  rest,"  he  cried,  turning  on 
me  fiercely.  "I  knew  it  when  you  passed  me  last  night." 

"I  never  saw  you  out  of  this  place,"  I  answered.  "As  for 
the  portraits  of  you,  whoever  you  may  be,  I  know  nothing 
about  them.  I  was  far  too  anxious  and  too  wretched  to 
amuse  myself  by  looking  into  shop  windows  before  I  came 
here.  You  and  your  name  are  equally  strange  to  me.  If 
you  have  any  respect  for  yourself,  tell  me  who  you  are.  Out 
with  the  truth,  Sir.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  you  have 
gone  too  far  to  stop." 

I  seized  him  by  the  hand.  I  was  wrought  up  by  the  ex- 
traordinary outburst  that  had  escaped  him  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  excitement.  I  was  hardly  conscious  of  what  I  said 
or  did.  At  that  supreme  moment  we  enraged,  we  maddened 
each  other.  His  hand  closed  convulsively  on  my  hand.  His 
eyes  looked  wildly  into  mine. 

"Do  you  read  the  newspapers?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  seen — " 

"  I  have  not  seen  the  name  of  Dubourg." 

"My  name  is  not  'Dubourg.'" 

"What  is  it?" 

He  suddenly  stooped  over  me  and  whispered  his  name  in 
my  ear. 

Tu  my  turn  I  started,  thunderstruck,  to  my  feet. 

"  Cood  God!"  I  cried.     "You  are  the  man  who  was  tried 


1'OOK    MISS    FINCH.  49 

for  murder  last  month,  and  who  was  all  but  hanged  on  the 
lalso  testimony  of  a  clock  !" 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTH. 

THE    PEUJURY    OF   THE    CLOCK. 

WE  looked  at  one  another  in  silence.  Both  alike,  we  were 
obliged  to  wait  a  little  and  recover  ourselves. 

I  may  occupy  the  interval  by  answering  two  questions 
which  will  arise  in  your  minds  in  this  place.  How  did  Du- 
bourg  come  to  be  tried  for  his  life?  And  what  was  the  con- 
nection between  this  serious  matter  and  the  false  testimony 
of  a  clock  ? 

The  reply  to  both  these  inquiries  is  to  be  found  in  the 
story  which  I  call  the  Perjury  of  the  Clock. 

In  briefly  relating  this  curious  incidental  narrative  (which 
I  take  from  a  statement  of  the  circumstances  placed  in  my 
possession)  I  shall  speak  of  our  new  acquaintance  at  Brown- 
down — and  shall  continue  to  speak  of  him  throughout  these 
pages — by  his  assumed  name.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  the 
maiden  name  of  his  mother,  and  he  had  a  right  to  take  it  if* 
he  pleased.  In  the  second  place,  the  date  of  our  domestic 
drama  at  Dimchurch  goes  back  as  far  as  the  years  'fifty-eight 
and  'fifty-nine;  and  real  names  are  (now  that  it  is  all  over) 
of  no  consequence  to  any  body.  With  "Dubourg"  we  have 
begun.  With  "Dubourg"  let  us  go  on  to  the  end. 

On  a  summer  evening,  some  years  ago,  a  man  was  found 
murdered  in  a  field  near  a  certain  town  in  the  West  of  En- 
gland. The  name  of  the  field  was  "Pardon's  Piece." 

The  man  was  a  small  carpenter  and  builder  in  the  town, 
who  bore  an  indifferent  character.  On  the  evening  in  ques- 
tion, a  distant  relative  of  his,  employed  as  farm  bailiff  by  a 
gentleman  in  the  neighborhood,  happened  to  be  passing  a 
stile  which  led  from  the  field  into  a  road,  and  saw  a  gentle- 
man leaving  the  field  by  way  of  this  stile  rather  in  a  hurry. 
He  recognized  the  gentleman  (whom  he  knew  by  sight  only) 
as  Mr.  Dubourg. 

The  two  passed  each  other  on  the  road  in  opposite  direc- 
tions. After  a  certain  lapse  of  time — estimated  as  being  half 

C 


50  POOK    MISS    FINCH. 

an  hour — the  farm  bailiff  had  occasion  to  pass  back  along  the 
same  road.  On  reaching  the  stile  he  Heard  an  alarm  raised, 
and  entered  the  h'eld  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  He  found 
several  persons  running  from  the  farther  side  of  Pardon's 
Piece  toward  a  boy  who  was  standing  at  the  back  of  a  cattle- 
shed,  in  a  remote  part  of  the  inclosure,  screaming  with  terror. 
At  the  boy's  feet  lay,  face  downward,  the  dead  body  of  a 
man,  writh  his  head  horribly  beaten  in.  His  watch  was  un- 
der him,  hanging  out  of  his  pocket  by  the  chain.  It  had  stop- 
ped— evidently  in  consequence  of  the  concussion  of  its  own- 
er's fall  on  it — at  half-past  eight.  The  body  was  still  warm. 
All  the  other  valuables,  like  the  watch,  were  left  on  it.  The 
farm  bailiff  instantly  recognized  the  man  as  the  carpenter 
and  builder  mentioned  above. 

At  the  preliminary  inquiry  the  stoppage  of  the  watch  at 
half-past  eight  was  taken  as  offering  good  circumstantial  evi- 
dence that  the  blow  which  had  killed  the  man  had  been 
struck  at  that  time. 

The  next  question  was — if  any  one  had  been  seen  near  the 
body  at  half-past  eight?  The  farm  bailiff  declared  that  he 
had  met  Mi1.  Dubourg  hastily  leaving  the  h'eld  by  the  stile  at 
that  very  time.  Asked  if  he  had  looked  at  his  watch,  he 
owned  that  he  had  not  done  so.  Certain  previous  circum- 
stances, which  he  mentioned  as  having  impressed  themselves 
on  his  memory,  enabled  him  to  feel  sure  of  the  truth  of  this  as- 
sertion without  having  consulted  his  watch.  He  was  pressed 
on  this  important  point,  but  he  held  to  his  declaration.  At 
half-past  eight  he  had  seen  Mr.  Dubourg  hurriedly  leave  the 
h'eld.  At  half-past  eight  the  watch  of  the  murdered  man 
had  stopped. 

Had  any  other  person  been  observed  in  or  near  the  field  at 
that  time? 

No  witness  could  be  discovered  who  had  seen  any  bod  v 
else  near  the  place.  Had  the  weapon  turned  up  with  which 
the  blow  had  been  struck?  It  had  not  been  found.  Was 
any  one  known  (robbery  having  plainly  not  been  the  motive 
of  the  crime)  to  have  entertained  a  grudge  against  the  mur- 
dered man.  It  was  no  secret  that  he  associated  with  doubt- 
ful characters,  male  and  female  ;  but  suspicion  failed  to  point 
to  any  one  of  them  in  particular. 

In  this  state  of  things  there  was  no  alternative  but  to  re- 


POOH   MISS    FINCH.  51 

quest  Mr.  Dubourg — well  known,  in  and  out  of  the  town,  as 
a  young  gentleman  of  independent  fortune,  bearing  an  excel- 
lent character — to  give  some  account  of  himself. 

He  immediately  admitted  that  he  had  passed  through  the 
Held.  But,  in  contradiction  to  the  farm  bailiif,  he  declared 
that  he  had  looked  at  his  watch  at  the  moment  before  he 
crossed  the  stile,  and  that  the  time  by  it  was  exactly  a  quar- 
ter past  eight.  Five  minutes  later — that  is  to  say,  ten  min- 
utes before  the  murder  had  been  committed,  on  the  evidence 
of  the  dead  man's  watch — he  had  paid  a  visit  to  a  lady  living 
near  Pardon's  Piece,  and  had  remained  with  her  until  his 
watch,  consulted  once  more  on  leaving  the  lady's  house,  in- 
formed him  that  it  was  a  quarter  to  nine. 

Here  was  the  defense  called  an  "alibi."  It  entirely  satis- 
fied Mr.  Dubourg's  friends.  To  satisfy  justice  also,  it  was 
necessary  to  call  the  lady  as  a  witness.  In  the  mean  time 
another  purely  formal  question  was  put  to  Mr.  Dubourg.  Did 
he  know  any  thing  of  the  murdered  man? 

With  some  appearance  of  contusion,  Mr.Dubourg  admitted 
that  he  had  been  induced  (by  a  friend)  to  employ  the  man 
on  some  work.  Further  interrogation  extracted  from  him 
the  following  statement  of  facts: 

That  the  work  had  been  very  badly  done;  that  an  exor- 
bitant price  had  been  charged  for  it;  that  the  man,  on  being 
remonstrated  with,  had  behaved  in  a  grossly  impertinent 
manner;  that  an  altercation  had  taken  place  between  them; 
that  Mr.  Dubourg  had  seized  the  man  by  the  collar  of  his 
coat,  and  had  turned  him  out  of  the  house;  that  he  had  called 
the  man  an  infernal  scoundrel  (being  in  a  passion  at  the  time), 
and  had  threatened  to  "thrash  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life" 
(or  words  to  that  effect)  if  he  ever  presumed  to  come  near 
the  house  again;  that  he  had  sincerely  regretted  his  own 
violence  the  moment  he  recovered  his  self-possession  ;  and 
lastly,  that,  on  his  oath  (the  altercation  having  occurred  six 
weeks  ago),  he  had  never  spoken  to  the  man,  or  set  eyes  on 
the  man,  since. 

As  the  matter  then  stood,  these  circumstances  were  consid- 
ered as  being  unfortunate  circumstances  for  Mr.  Dubourer — 
nothing  more.  He  had  his  "alibi"  to  appeal  to, and  his  char- 
acter to  appeal  to;  and  nobody  doubted  the  result. 

The  lady  appeared  as  witness. 


52  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

Confronted  with  Mr.  Dubourg  on  the  question  of  time,  and 
forced  to  answer,  she  absolutely  contradicted  him,  on  the  tes- 
timony of  the  clock  on  her  own  mantel-piece.  In  substance 
her  evidence  was  simply  this:  She  had  looked  at  her  clock 
when  Mr.  Dubourg  entered  the  room,  thinking  it  rather  a 
late  hour  for  a  visitor  to  call  on  her.  The  clock  (regulated 
by  the  maker  only  the  day  before)  pointed  to  twenty-five 
minutes  to  nine.  Practical  experiment  showed  that  the  time 
required  to  walk  the  distance,  at  a  rapid  pace,  from  the  stile 
to  the  lady's  house,  was  just  five  minutes.  Here,  then,  was 
the  statement  of  the  farm  bailiff  (himself  a  respectable  wit- 
ness) corroborated  by  another  witness  of  excellent  position 
and  character.  The  clock,  on  being  examined  next,  was  found 
to  be  right.  The  evidence  of  the  clock-maker  proved  that 
he  kept  the  key,  and  that  there  had  been  no  necessity  to  set 
the  clock  and  wind  it  up  again  since  he  had  performed  both 
those  acts  on  the  day  preceding  Mr.  Dubourg's  visit.  The 
accuracy  of  the  clock  thus  vouched  for,  the  conclusion  on  the 
evidence  was  irresistible.  Mr.  Dubourg  stood  convicted  of 
having  been  in  the  field  at  the  time  when  the  murder  was 
committed;  of  having,  by  his  own  admission,  had  a  quarrel 
with  the  murdered  man  not  long  before,  terminating  in  an 
assault  and  a  threat  on  his  side  ;  and,  lastly,  of  having  at- 
tempted to  set  up  an  alibi  by  a  false  statement  of  the  ques- 
tion of  time.  There  was  no  alternative  but  to  commit  him 
to  take  his  trial  at  the  Assizes,  charged  with  the  murder  of 
the  builder  in  Pardon's  Piece. 

The  trial  occupied  two  days. 

No  new  facts  of  importance  were  discovered  in  the  inter- 
val. The  evidence  followed  the  course  which  it  had  taken 
at  the  preliminary  examinations — with  this  difference  only, 
that  it  was  more  carefully  sifted.  Mr.  Dubourg  had  the 
double  advantage  of  securing  the  services  of  the  leading  bar- 
rister in  the  circuit,  and  of  moving  the  irrepressible  sympa- 
thies of  the  jury,  shocked  at  his  position,  and  eager  for  proof 
of  his  innocence.  By  the  end  of  the  first  day  the  evidence 
had  told  against  him  with  such  irresistible  force  that  his  own 
counsel  despaired  of  the  result.  When  the  prisoner  took  his 
place  in  the  dock  on  the  second  day,  there  was  but  one  con- 
viction in  the  minds  of  the  people  in  court — every  body  said, 
"The  clock  will  ham*  him." 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  53 

It  was  nearly  two  in  the  afternoon ;  and  the  proceedings 
were  on  the  point  c^f  being  adjourned  for  half  an  hour,  when 
the  attorney  for  the  prisoner  was  seen  to  hand  a  paper  to 
the  counsel  for  the  defense. 

The  counsel  rose,  showing  signs  of  agitation  which  roused 
the  curiosity  of  the  audience.  He  demanded  the  immediate 
hearing  of  a  new  witness,  whose  evidence  in  the  prisoner's 
favor  lie  declared  to  be  too  important  to  be  delayed  for  a 
single  moment.  After  a  short  colloquy  between  tl»e  judge 
and  the  barristers  on  either  side,  the  Court  decided  to  con- 
tinue the  sitting. 

The  witness,  appearing  in  the  box,  proved  to  be  a  young 
woman  in  delicate  health.  On  the  evening  when  the  pris- 
oner had  paid  his  visit  to  the  lady  she  was  in  that  lady's 
service  as  housemaid.  The  day  after  she  had  been  permit- 
ted (by  previous  arrangement  with  her  mistress)  to  take  a 
week's  holiday,  and  to  go  on  a  visit  to  her  parents  in  the 
west  of  Cornwall.  While  there  she  had  fallen  ill,  and  had 
not  been  strong  enough  since  to  return  to  her  employment. 
Having  given  this  preliminary  account  of  herself,  the  house- 
maid then  stated  the  following  extraordinary  particulars  in 
relation  to  her  mistress's  clock. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  when  Mr.  Dubourg  had  called 
at  the  house  she  had  been  cleaning  the  mantel-piece.  She 
had  rubbed  the  part  of  it  which  was  under  the  clock  with 
her  duster,  had  accidentally  struck  the  pendulum,  and  had 
stopped  it.  Having  once  before  done  this,  she  had  been  se- 
verely reproved.  Fearing  that  a  repetition  of  the  offense, 
only  the  day  after  the  clock  had  been  regulated  by  the  mak- 
er, might  lead  perhaps  to  the  withdrawal  of  her  leave  of  ab- 
sence, she  had  determined  to  put  matters  right  again,  if  pos- 
sible, by  herself. 

After  poking  under  the  clock  in  the  dark,  and  failing  to 
set  the  pendulum  going  again  properly  in  that  way,  she  next 
attempted  to  lift  the  clock,  and  give  it  a  shake.  It  was  set 
in  a  marble  case,  with  a  bronze  figure  on  the  top,  and  it  was 
so  heavy  that  she  was  obliged  to  hunt  for  something  which 
she  could  use  as  a  lever.  The  thing  proved  to  be  not  easy 
to  find  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  Having  at  last  laid  her 
hand  on  what  she  wanted, .she  contrived  so  to  lift  the  clock 
a  few  inches  and  drop  it  again  on  the  mantel-piece  as  to  sot 
it  going  once  moro. 


54  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

The  next  necessity  was,  of  course,  to  move  the  hands  on. 
Here  again  she  was  met  by  an  obstacle.  There  was  a  diffi- 
culty in  opening  the  glass  case  which  protected  the  dial. 
After  uselessly  searching  for  some  instrument  to  help  her, 
she  got  from  the  footman  (without  telling  him  what  she 
wanted  it  for)  a  small  chisel.  With  this  she  opened  the 
case — after  accidentally  scratching  the  brass  frame  of  it — 
and  set  the  hands  of  the  clock  by  guess.  She  was  flurried  at 
the  time1, fearing  that  her  mistress  would  discover  her.  Later 
in  the  day  she  found  that  she  had  overestimated  the  inter- 
val of  time  that  had  passed  while  she  was  trying  to  put  the 
clock  right.  She  had,  in  fact,  set  it  exactly  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  too  fast. 

No  safe  opportunity  of  secretly  putting  the  clock  right 
again  had  occurred  until  the  last  thing  at  night.  She  had 
then  moved  the  hands  back  to  the  right  time.  At  the  hour 
of  the  evening  when  Mr.  Dubourg  had  called  on  her  mis- 
tress she  positively  swore  that  the  clock  was  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  too  fast.  It  had  pointed,  as  her  mistress  had  declared, 
to  twenty-five  minutes  to  nine — the  right  time  then  being, 
as  Mr.  Dubourg  had  asserted,  twenty  minutes  past  eight. 

Questioned  as  to  why  she  had  refrained  from  giving  this 
extraordinary  evidence  at  the  inquiry  before  the  magistrate, 
she  declared  that  in  the  remote  Cornish  village  to  which  she 
had  gone  the  next  day,  and  in  which  her  illness  had  detained 
her  from  that  time,  nobody  had  heard  of  the  inquiry  or  the 
trial.  She  would  not  have  been  then  present  to  state  the 
vitally  important  circumstances  to  which  she  had  just  sworn 
if  the  prisoner's  twin  brother  had  not  found  her  out  on  the 
previous  day,  had  not  questioned  her  if  she  knew  any  thing 
about  the  clock,  and  had  not  (hearing  what  she  had  to  tell) 
insisted  on  her  taking  the  journey  with  him  to  the  court  the 
next  morning. 

This  evidence  virtually  decided  the  trial.  There  was  a 
great  burst  of  relief  in  the  crowded  assembly  when  the  Avom- 
an's  statement  had  come  to  an  end. 

She  was  closely  cross-examined,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Her  character  was  inquired  into;  corroborative  evidence  (re- 
lating to  the  chisel  and  the  scratches  on  the  frame)  was 
sought  lor,  and  was  obtained.  The  end  of  it  was  that,  at  a 
late  hour  on  the  second  evening,  the  jury  acquitted  the  pris- 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  55 

oner  without  leaving  their  box.  It  was  not  too  much  to 
say  that  his  life  had  been  saved  by  his  brother.  His  brother 
alone  had  persisted,  from  first  to  last,  in  obstinately  disbe- 
lieving the  clock — for  no  better  reason  than  that  the  clock 
was  the  witness  which  asserted  the  prisoner's  guilt !  He 
had  worried  every  body  with  incessant  inquiries;  he  had 
discovered  the  absence  of  the  house-maid  after  the  trial  had 
begun ;  and  he  had  started  off  to  interrogate  the  girl,  know- 
ing nothing  and  suspecting  nothing — simply  determined  to 
persist  in  the  one  everlasting  question  with  which  he  perse- 
cuted every  body:  "The  clock  is  going  to  hang  my  brother; 
can  you  tell  me  any  thing  about  the  clock?" 

Four  months  later  the  mystery  of  the  crime  was  cleared 
up.  One  of  the  disreputable,  companions  of  the  murdered 
man  confessed  on  his  death-bed  that  he  had  done  the  deed. 
There  was  nothing  interesting  or  remarkable  in  the  circum- 
stances. Chance,  which  had  put  innocence  in  peril,  had  of- 
fered impunity  to  guilt.  An  infamous  woman,  a  jealous 
quarrel,  and  an  absence  at  the  moment  of  witnesses  on  the 
spot  —  these  were  really  the  commonplace  materials  which 
had  composed  the  tragedy  of  Pardon's  Piece. 


CHAPTER  THE  NINTH. 

THE     HERO     OF     THE     TRIAL. 

"  You  have  forced  it  out  of  me.  Now  you  have  had  your 
way,  never  mind  my  feelings.  Go  !" 

Those  were  the  first  words  the  Hero  of  the  Trial  said  to 
me,  when  he  was  able  to  speak  again.  He  withdrew,  with  a 
curious  sullen  resignation,  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 
There  he  stood  looking  at  me  as  a  man  might  have  looked 
who  carried  some  contagion  about  him,  and  who  wished  to 
preserve  a  healthy  fellow-creature  from  the  peril  of  touching 
him. 

"Why  should  I  go?"  I  asked. 

"You  are  a  bold  woman,"  he  said,  "  to  remain  in  the  same 
room  with  a  man  who  has  been  pointed  at  as  a  murderer, 
and  who  has  been  tried  for  his  life." 

The  same  unhealthy  state  of  mind  which  had  brought  him 
to  Dimchurch,  and  which  had  led  him  to  speak  to  me  as  he 


50  POOR   MISS   FIXCH. 

had  spoken  on  the  previous  evening,  was,  as  I  understood  it, 
now  irritating  him  against  me  as  a  person  who  had  made 
his  own  quick  temper  the  means  of  entrapping  him  into  let- 
ting out  the  truth.  How  was  I  to  deal  with  a  man  in  this 
condition?  I  decided  to  perform  the  feat  which  you  call  in 
England  "  taking  the  bull  by  the  horns." 

"I  see  but  one  man  here,"  I  said:  "a  man  honorably  ac- 
quitted of  a  crime  which  he  was  incapable  of  committing — a 
man  who  deserves  my  interest  and  claims  my  sympathy. 
Shake  hands,  Mr.  Dubourg." 

I  spoke  to  him  in  a  good  hearty  voice,  and  I  gave  him  a 
good  hearty  squeeze.  The  poor,  weak,  lonely,  persecuted 
young  fellow  dropped  his  head  on  my  shoulder  like  a  child, 
and  burst  out  crying. 

"  Don't  despise  me,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  had  got  his 
breath  again.  "It  breaks  a  man  down  to  have  stood  in 
the  dock,  and  to  have  had  hundreds  of  hard-hearted  people 
staring  at  him  in  horror,  without  his  deserving  it.  Besides, 
I  have  been  very  lonely,  ma'am,  since  my  brother  left  me." 

We  sat  down  again  side  by  side.  He  was  the  strangest 
compound  of  anomalies  I  had  ever  met  with.  Throw  him 
into  one  of  those  passions  in  which  he  flamed  out  so  easily, 
and  you  would  have  said,  This  is  a  tiger.  Wait  till  he  had 
cooled  down  again  to  his  customary  mild  temperature,  and 
you  would  have  said,  with  equal  truth,  This  is  a  Iamb. 

"  One  thing  rather  surprises  me,  Mr.  Dubourg,"  I  went  on. 
"I  can't  quite  understand — " 

"Don't  call  me  'Mr.  Dubourg,'"  he  interposed.  "You 
remind  me  of  the  disgrace  which  has  forced  me  to  change 
my  name.  Call  me  by  my  Christian  name.  It's  a  foreign 
name.  You  are  a  foreigner  by  your  accent — you  will  like 
me  all  the  better  for  having  a  foreign  name.  I  was  chris- 
tened 'Oscar,'  after  my  mother's  brother — my  mother  was  a 
Jersey  woman.  Call  me  '  Oscar.'  What  is  it  you  don't  un- 
derstand?" 

"In  your  present  situation,"  I  resumed,  "I  don't  under- 
stand your  brother  leaving  you  here  all  by  yourself." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  flaming  out  again  at  that. 

"Not  a  word  against  my  brother  !"  he  exclaimed,  fiercely. 
"My  brother  is  the  noblest  creature  that  God  ever  created  ! 
You  must  own  that  yourself;  you  know  what  he  did  at  the 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  57 

jrial.  I  should  have  died  on  the  scaffold  but  for  that  angel. 
I  insist  on  it  that  he  is  not  a  man.  lie  is  an  angel !" 

(I  admitted  that  his  brother  was  an  angel.  The  conces- 
sion instantly  pacified  him.) 

"People  say  there  is  no  difference  between  us,"  he  went 
on,  drawing  his  chair  cornpanionably  close  to  mine.  "Ah, 
people  are  so  shallow  !  Personally,  I  grant  you,  we  are  ex- 
actly alike.  (You  have  heard  that  we  are  twins?)  But 
there  it  ends,  unfortunately  for  me.  Nugent  (my  brother 
was  christened  Nugent,  after  my  father) — Nugent  is  a  hero  ! 
Nugent  is  a  genius!  I  should  have  died  if  he  hadn't  taken 

O  ^5 

care  of  me  after  the  trial.  I  had  nobody  but  him.  We  are 
orphans;  we  have  no  brothers  or  sisters.  Nugent  felt  the 
disgrace  even  more  than  I  felt  it,  but  he  could  control  him- 
self. It  fell  more  heavily  on  him  than  it  did  on  me.  I'll 
tell  you  why.  Nugent  was  in  a  fair  way  to  make  our  fam- 
ily name — the  name  that  we  have  been  obliged  to  drop — 
famous  all  over  the  world.  He  is  a  painter — a  landscape 
painte»-.  Have  you  never  heard  of  him  ?  Ah !  you  soon 
will!  Where  do  you  think  he  has  gone  to?  He  has  gone 
to  the  wilds  of  America  in  search  of  new  subjects.  He  is 
going  to  found  a  school  of  landscape  painting.  On  an  im- 
mense scale  !  A  scale  that  has  never  been  attempted  yet ! 
Dear  fellow  !  Shall  I  tell  you  what  he  said  when  he  left  me 
here  ?  Noble  words — I  call  them  noble  words.  '  Oscar,  I 
go  to  make  our  assumed  name  famous.  You  shall  be  hon- 
orably known — you  shall  be  illustrious— as  the  brother  of 
Nugent  Dubourg.'  Do  you  think  I  could  stand  in  the  way 
of  such  a  career  as  that?  After  what  he  has  sacrificed  for 
me,  could  I  let  Such  a  Man  stagnate  here — for  no  better  pur- 
pose than  to  keep  me  company  ?  What  does  it  matter  about 
my  feeling  lonely  ?  Who  am  I  ?  Oh,  if  you  had  seen  how 
he  bore  with  the  horrible  notoriety  that  followed  us  after 
the  trial !  He  was  constantly  stared  at  and  pointed  at,  for 
me.  Not  a  word  of  complaint  escaped  him.  He  snapped 
his  fingers  at  it.  '  That  for  public  opinion  !'  he  said.  What 
strength  of  mind — eh  ?  From  one  place  after  another  we 
moved  and  moved,  and  still  there  were  the  photographs  and 
the  newspapers  and  the  whole  infamous  story  ('romance  in 
real  life,'  they  called  it)  known  beforehand  to  every  body. 
He  never  lost  heart  'We  shall  find  a  place  yet'  (that  was 

C  2 


58  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

the  cheerful  way  he  put  it).  '  You  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  Oscar ;  you  are  safe  in  my  hands ;  I  promise  you  exactly 
the  place  of  refuge  you  want.'  It  was  he  who  got  all  the 
information,  and  found  out  this  lonely  part  of  England  where 
you  live.  I  thought  it  pretty  as  we  wandered  about  the 
hills ;  it  wasn't  half  grand  enough  for  him.  We  lost  our- 
selves. I  began  to  feel  nervous.  He  didn't  mind  it  a  bit. 
'You  have  Me  with  you,'  he  said.  'My  luck  is  always  to  be 
depended  on.  Mark  what  I  say!  We  shall  stumble  on  a 
village!'  You  will  hardly  believe  me — in  ten  minutes  more 
we  stumbled,  exactly  as  he  had  fort-told,  on  this  place.  He 
didn't  leave  me — when  I  had  prevailed  on  him  to  go — with- 
out a  recommendation.  He  recommended  me  to  the  land- 
lord of  the  inn  here.  He  said, '  My  brother  is  delicate  ;  my 
brother  wishes  to  live  in  retirement ;  you  will  oblige  me  by 
looking  after  my  brother.'  Wasn't  it  kind  ?  The  landlord 
seemed  to  be  quite  affected  by  it.  Nugent  cried  when  he 
took  leave  of  me.  Ah,  what  would  I  not  give  to  have  a 
heart  like  his,  and  a  mind  like  his  !  It's  something — isn't  it? 
— to  have  a  face  like  him.  I  often  say  that  to  myself  when 
I  look  in  the  glass.  Excuse  my  running  on  in  this  way. 
When  I  once  begin  to  talk  of  Nugent,  I  don't  know  when  to 
leave  off." 

One  thing,  at  any  rate,  was  plainly  discernible  in  this  oth- 
erwise inscrutable  young  man.  He  adored  his  twin  brother. 

It  would  have  been  equally  clear  to  me  that  Mr.  Nugent 
Dubourg  deserved  to  be  worshiped  if  I  could  have  recon- 
ciled to  my  mind  his  leaving  his  brother  to  shift  for  himself 
in  such  a  place  as  Dimchurch.  I  was  obliged  to  remind  my- 
self of  the  admirable  service  which  he  had  rendered  at  the 
trial  before  I  could  decide  to  do  him  the  justice  of  suspend- 
ing my  opinion  of  him  in  his  absence.  Having  accomplished 
this  act  of  magnanimity,  I  took  advantage  of  the  first  oppor- 
tunity to  change  the  subject.  The  most  tiresome  informa- 
tion that  I  am  .acquainted  with  is  the  information  which  tells 
us  of  the  virtues  of  an  absent  person — when  that  absent  per- 
son happens  to  be  a  stranger. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  have  taken  Browndown  for  six 
months?"  I  asked.  "  Are  you  really  going  to  settle  at  Dim- 
church?" 

"Yes — if  you  keep  my  secret,"  he  answered.    "The  people 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  59 

here  know  nothing  about  me.  Don't,  pray  don't,  tell  them 
who  I  am  !  You  will  drive  me  away  if  you  do." 

"  I  must  tell  Miss  Finch  who  you  are,"  I  said. 

"No!  no!  no!"  he  exclaimed  eagerly.  "I  can't  bear  the 
idea  of  her  knowing  it.  I  have  been  so  horribly  degraded. 
What  will  she  think  of  me?"  He  burst  into  another  explo- 
sion of  rhapsodies  on  the  subject  of  Lucilla — mixed  up  with 
renewed  petitions  to  me  to  keep  his  story  concealed  from 
every  body.  I  lost  all  patience  with  his  want  of  common 
fortitude  and  common-sense. 

"  Young  Oscar,  I  should  like  to  box  your  ears !"  I  said. 
"You  are  in  a  villainously  unwholesome  state  about  this 
matter.  Have  you  nothing  else  to  think  of?  Have  you  no 
profession?  Are  you  not  obliged  to  work  for  your  living?" 

I  spoke,  as  you  perceive,  with  some  force  of  expression, 
aided  by  a  corresponding  asperity  of  voice  and  manner. 

Mr.  Oscar  Dubourg  looked  at  me  with  the  puzzled  air  of  a 
man  who  feels  an  overflow  of  new  ideas  forcing  itself  into  his 
mind.  He  modestly  admitted  the  degrading  truth.  From 
his  childhood  upward  he  had  only  to  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  to  find  the  money  there,  without  any  preliminary 
necessity  of  earning  it  first.  His  father  had  been  a  fashion- 
able portrait  painter,  and  had  married  one  of  his  sitters,  an 
heiress.  Oscar  and  Nugent  had  been  left  in  the  detestable 
position  of  independent  gentlemen.  The  dignity  of  labor 
was  a  dignity  unknown  to  these  degraded  young  men.  a  I 
despise  a  wealthy  idler,"  I  said  to  Oscar,  with  my  republican 
severity.  "You  want  the  ennobling  influences  of  labor  to 
make  a  man  of  you.  Nobodv  has  a  right  to  be  idle  :  nobodv 

J  *  » 

has  a  right  to  be  rich.  You  would  be  in  a  more  wholesome 
state  of  mind  about  yourself,  my  young  gentleman,  if  you 
had  to  earn  your  bread  and  cheese  before  you  ate  it." 

He  stared  at  me  piteously.  The  noble  sentiments  which  I 
had  inherited  from  Doctor  Pratolungo  completely  bewildered 
Mr.  Oscar  Dubourg. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,"  he  said,  in  his  innocent  way. 

™     •* 

"I  couldn't  eat  my  cheese  if  I  did  earn  it.  I  can't  digest 
cheese.  Besides,  I  employ  myself  as  much  as  I  can/'  lie 
took  his  little  golden  vase  from  the  table  behind  him,  and 
told  me  what  I  had  already  heard  him  tell  Lucilla  while  I 
was  listening  at  the  window.  "  You  would  have  found  me 


60  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

at  work  this  morning,"  he  Avent  on,  "if  the  stupid  people 
who  send  me  my  metal  plates  had  not  made  a  mistake.  The 
alloy,  in  the  gold  and. silver  both,  is  all  wrong  this  time.  I 
must  return  the  plates  to  be  melted  again  before  I  can  do 
any  thing  with  them.  They  are  all  ready  to  go  back  to-day 
when  the  cart  comes.  If  there  are  any  laboring  people  here 
who  want  money,  I'm  sure  I  will  give  them  some  of  mine 
with  the  greatest  pleasure.  It  isn't  my  fault,  ma'am,  that  my 
father  married  my  mother.  And  how  could  I  help  it  if  he 
left  two  thousand  a  year  each  to  my  brother  and  me?" 

Two  thousand  a  year  each  to  his  brother  and  him !  And 
the  illustrious  Pratolungo  had  never  known  what  it  was  to 
have  five  pounds  sterling  at  his  disposal  before  his  union 
with  Me ! 

I  lifted  my  eyes  to  the  ceiling.  In  my  righteous  indigna- 
tion I  forgot  Lucilla  and  her  curiosity  about  Oscar;  I  forgot 
Oscar  and  his  horror  of  Lucilla  discovering  who  he  was.  I 
opened  my  lips  to  speak.  In  another  moment  I  should  have 
launched  my  thunder-bolts  against  the  whole  infamous  s,ys- 
tem  of  modern  society,  when  I  was  silenced  by  the  most  ex- 
traordinary and  unexpected  interruption  that  ever  closed  a 
woman's  lips. 


CHAPTER  TPIE  TENTH. 

FIRST     APPEARANCE     OF     JICKS. 

THERE  walked  in  at  the  open  door  of  the  room — softly, 
suddenly,  composedly  —  a  chubby  female  child,  who  could 
not  possibly  have  been  more  than  three  years  old.  She  had 
no  hat  or  cap  on  her  head.  A  dirty  pinafore  covered  her 
from  her  chin  to  her  feet.  This  amazing  apparition  advanced 
into  the  middle  of  the  room,  holding  hugged  under  one  arm 
a  ragged  and  disreputable-looking  doll;  stared  hard,  first  at 
Oscar,  then  at  me;  advanced  to  my  knees,  laid  the  disrepu- 
table doll  on  my  lap,  and  pointing  to  a  vacant  chair  at  my 
side,  claimed  the  rights  of  hospitality  in  these  words: 

"  Jicks  will  sit  down." 

How  was  it  possible,  under  these  circumstances,  to  attack 
the  infamous  system  of  modern  society  ?  It  was  only  pos- 
sible to  kiss  "Jicks." 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  63 

"Do  you  know  who  this  is?"  I  inquired,  as  I  lifted  our 
visitor  on  to  the  chair. 

Oscar  burst  out  laughing.  Like  me,  he  now  saw  this 
mysterious  young  lady  for  the  first  time.  Like  me,  lie  won- 
dered what  the  extraordinary  nickname  under  which  she  had 
presented  herself  could  possibly  mean. 

We  looked  at  the  child.  The  child — with  its  legs  stretched 
out  straight  before  it,  terminating  in  a  pair  of  little  dusty 
boots  with  holes  in  them — lifted  its  large  round  eyes,  over- 
shadowed by  a  penthouse  of  unbrushed  flaxen  hair,  looked 
gravely  at  us  in  return,  and  made  a  second  call  on  our  hos- 
pitality as  follows: 

"  Jicks  will  have  something  to  drink." 

While  Oscar  ran  into  the  kitchen  for  some  milk, I  succeeded 
in  discovering  the  identity  of  "Jicks." 

Something — I  can  not  well  explain  what — in  the  manner 
in  which  the  child  had  drifted  into  the  room  with  her  doll 
reminded  me  of  the  lymphatic  lady  of  the  rectory,  drifting 
backward  and  forward  with  the  baby  in  one  hand  and  the 
novel  in  the  other.  I  took  the  liberty  of  examining  "  Jick's" 
pinafore,  and  discovered  the  mark  in  one  corner  "Selina 
Finch."  Exactly  as  I  had  supposed,  here  was  a  member  of 
Mrs.  Finch's  numerous  family.  Rather  a  young  member,  it 
struck  me,  to  be  wandering  hatless  round  the  environs  of 
Dimchurch  all  by  herself. 

Oscar  returned  with  the  milk  in  a  mug.  The  child,  insist- 
ing on  taking  the  mug  into  her  own  hands,  steadily  emptied 
it  to  the  last  drop,  recovered  her  breath  with  a  gasp,  looked 
at  me  with  a  white  mustache  of  milk  on  her  upper  lip,  and 
announced  the  conclusion  of  her  visit  in  these  terms: 

"Jicks  will  get  down  again." 

I  deposited  our  young  friend  on  the  floor.  She  took  her 
doll,  and  stood  for  a  moment  deep  in  thought.  What  was 
she  going  to  do  next?  We  were  not  kept  long  in  suspense. 
She  suddenly  put  her  little,  hot,  fat  hand  into  mine,  and  tried 
to  pull  me  after  her  out  of  the  room. 

"  What  do  you  want?"  I  asked. 

Jicks  answered  in  one  untranslatable  compound  word, 

"  Man-Gee-gee." 

I  suffered  myself  to  be  pulled  out  of  the  room  to  see 
"  Man-Gee-gee,"  to  play  "  Man-Gee-gee,"  or  to  eat  "  Man-Gee- 


64  POOR   MISS   FIXCII. 

gee,"  it  was  impossible  to  tell  winch.  I  was  pulled  along 
the  passage ;  I  was  pulled  out  to  the  front-door.  There — 
having  approached  the  house  inaudibly  to  us  over  the  grass 
— stood  the  horse,  cart,  and  man  waiting  to  take  the  case  of 
gold  and  silver  plates  back  to  London.  I  looked  at  Oscar, 
who  had  followed  me.  We  now  understood  not  only  the 
masterly  compound  word  of  Jicks  (signifying  man  and  horse, 
and  passing  over  cart  as  unimportant),  but  the  polite  atten- 
tion of  Jicks  in  entering  the  house  to  inform  us,  after  a  rest 
and  a  drink,  of  a  circumstance  which  had  escaped  our  notice. 
The  driver  of  the  cart  had,  on  his  own  acknowledgment, 
been  investigated  and  questioned  by  this  extraordinary 
child,  strolling  up  to  the  door  of  Browndown  to  see  what  he 
was  doing  there.  Jicks  was  a  public  character  at  Dimchurch. 
The  driver  knew  all  about  her.  She  had  been  nicknamed 
"Gypsy"  from  her  wandering  habits,  and  had  shortened  the 
name  in  her  own  dialect  into  "  Jicks."  There  was  no  keep- 
ing her  in  at  the  rectory,  try  how  you  might.  They  had  long 
since  abandoned  the  effort  in  despair.  Sooner  or  later  she 
turned  up  again,  or  somebody  brought  her  back,  or  one  of 
the  sheep-dogs  found  her  asleep  under  a  bush  and  gave  the 
alarm.  "  What  goes  on  in  that  child's  head,"  said  the  driver, 
regarding  Jicks  with  a  sort  of  superstitious  admiration,  "the 
Lord  only  knows.  She  has  a  will  of  her  own  and  a  way  of 
her  own.  She  is  a  child,  and  she  ain't  a  child.  At  three 
years  of  age  she's  a  riddle  none  of  us  can  guess.  And  that's 
the  long  and  the  short  of  what  I  know  about  her." 

While  this  explanation  was  in  progress  the  carpenter  who 
had  nailed  up  the  case,  and  the  carpenter's  son,  accompanying 
him,  joined  us  in  front  of  the  house.  They  followed  Oscar 
in,  and  came  out  again  bearing  the  heavy  burden  of  precious 
metal — more  than  one  man  could  conveniently  lift — between 
them. 

The  case  deposited  in  the  cart,  carpenter  senior  and  car- 
penter junior  got  in  after  it,  wanting  "a  lift"  to  Brighton. 
Carpenter  senior — a  big,  burly  man — made  a  joke.  "  It's  a 
lonely  country  between  this  and  Brighton,  Sir,"  he  said  to 
Oscar.  "  Three  of  us  will  be  none  too  many  to  see  your 
precious  packing-case  safe  into  the  railway  station.  Oscar 
took  it  seriously.  "Are  there  any  robbers  in  this  neighbor- 
hood ?"  he  asked.  "  Lord  love  you,  Sir !"  said  the  driver, 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  65 

"  robbers  would  starve  in  these  parts ;  we  have  got  nothing 
worth  thieving  here."  Jicks,  still  watching  the  proceedings 
with  an  interest  which  allowed  no  detail  to  escape  her  notice, 
assumed  the  responsibility  of  starting  the  men  on  their  jour- 
ney. The  odd  child  waved  her  chubby  hand  imperiously  to 
her  friend  the  driver,  and  cried  in  her  loudest  voice,  "Away!" 
The  driver  touched  his  hat  with  comic  respect.  "All  right, 
miss;  time's  money, ain't  it?"  He  cracked  his  whip, and  the 
cart  rolled  off  noiselessly  over  the  thick,  close  turf  of  the 
South  Downs. 

It  was  time  for  me  to  go  back  to  the  rectory,  and  to  re- 
store the  wandering  Jicks,  for  the  time  being,  to  the  protec- 
tion of  home.  I  turned  to  Oscar  to  say  good-by. 

"I  wish  I  was  going  back  with  you,"  he  said. 

"You  will,  be  as  free  as  I  am  to  come  and  to  go  at  the 
rectory,"  I  unswered,  "  when  they  know  what  has  passed  this 
morning  between  you  and  me.  In  your  own  interests  I  am 
determined  to  tell  them  who  you  are.  You  have  nothing  to 
fear,  and  every  thing  to  gain,  by  my  speaking  out.  Clear 
your  mind  of  fancies  and  suspicions  that  are  unworthy  ot  you. 
By  to-morrow  we  shall  be  good  neighbors;  by  the  end  of 
the  week  we  shall  be  good  friends.  For  the  present,  as  we 
say  in  France,  an  revoir!" 

I  turned  to  take  Jicks  by  the  hand.  While  I  had  been 
speaking  to  Oscar  the  child  had  slipped  away  from  me.  Not 
a  sign  of  her  was  to  be  seen. 

Before  we  could  stir  a  step  to  search  for  our  lost  Gypsy, 
her  voice  reached  us,  raised  shrill  and  angry,  in  the  regions 
behind  us,  at  the  side  of  the  house. 

"Go  away!"  we  heard  the  child  cry  out  impatiently. 
"  Ugly  men»  go  away  !" 

We  turned  the  corner, and  discovered  two  shabby  strangers 
resting  themselves  against  the  side-wall  of  the  house.  Their 
cadaverous  faces,  their  brutish  expressions,  and  their  frowsy 
clothes  proclaimed  them,  to  my  eye,  as  belonging  to  the 
vilest  blackguard  type  that  the  civilized  earth  has  yet  pro- 
duced—  the  blackguard  of  London  growth.  There  they 
lounged,  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets  and  their  backs 
against  the  wall,  as  if  they  were  airing  themselves  on  the 
outer  side  of  a  public-house,  and  there  stood  .Ticks,  with  her 
legs  planted  wide  apart  on  the  turf,  asserting  the  rights 


60  POOR   MISS  .FINCH. 

of  property  (even  at  that  early  age !),  and  ordering  the 
rascals  off. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  asked  Oscar,  sharply. 

One  of  the  men  appeared  to  be  on  the  point  of  making  an 
insolent  answer.  The  other — the  younger  and  the  viler-look- 
ing villain  of  the  two — checked  him,  and  spoke  first. 

"  We've  had  a  longish  walk,  Sir,"  said  the  fellow,  with  an 
impudent  assumption  of  humility ;  "and  we've  took  the  lib- 
erty of  resting  our  backs  against  your  wall,  and  feastin'  our 
eyes  on  the  beauty  of  your  young  lady  here." 

He  pointed  to  the  child.  Jicks  shook  her  fist  at  him,  and 
ordered  him  off  more  fiercely  than  ever. 

"There's  an  inn  in  the  village,"  said  Oscar.  "Rest  there, 
if  you  please — my  house  is  not  an  inn." 

The  elder  man  made  a  second  effort  to  speak,  beginning 
with  an  oath.  The  younger  checked  him  again. 

"Shut  up,  Jim  !"  said  the  superior  blackguard  of  the  two. 
"The  gentleman  recommends  the  tap  at  the  inn.  Come  and 
drink  the  gentleman's  health."  He  turned  to  the  child,  and 
took  off  his  hat  to  her  with  a  low  bow.  "Wish  you  good- 
morning,  miss  !  You're  just  the  style,  you  are,  that  I  admire. 
Please  don't  engage  yourself  to  be  married  till  I  come  back." 

His  savage  companion  was  so  tickled  by  this  delicate 
pleasantry  that  he  burst  suddenly  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 
Arm  in  arm  the  two  ruffians  walked  off  together  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  village.  Our  funny  little  Jicks  became  a  tragic 
and  terrible  Jicks  all  on  a  sudden.  The  child  resented  the 
insolence  of  the  two  men  as  if  she  really  understood  it.  I 
never  saw  so  young  a  creature  in  such  a  furious  passion  be- 
fore. She  picked  up  a  stone  and  threw  it  at  them  before  I 
could  stop  her.  She  screamed,  and  stamped  her  tiny  feet 
alternately 'on  the  ground,  till  she  was  purple  in  the  face. 
She  threw  herself  down  and  rolled  in  fury  on  the  grass. 
Nothing  pacified  her  but  a  rash  promise  of  Oscar's  (which 
he  was  destined  to  hear  of  for  many  a  long  day  afterward) 
to  send  for  the  police,  and  to  have  the  two  men  soundly 
beaten  for  daring  to  laugh  at  Jicks.  She  got  up  from  the 
ground,  and  dried  her  eyes  with  her  knuckles,  and  fixed  a 
warning  look  on  Oscar.  "Mind!"  said  this  curious  child, 
with  her  bosom  still  heaving  under  the  dirty  pinafore,  "the 
men  are  to  be  beaten.  And  Jicks  is  to  see  it." 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  07 

I  said  nothing  to  Oscar  at  the  time,  but  I  felt  sonic  secret 
uneasiness  on  the  way  home — an  uneasiness  inspired  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  two  men  in  the  neighborhood  of  Browndown. 

It  was  impossible  to  say  how  long  they  might  have  been 
lurking  about  the  outside  of  the  house  before  the  child  dis- 
covered them.  They  might  have  heard,  through  the  open 
window,  what  Oscar  had  said  to  me  on  the  subject  of  his 
plates  of  precious  metal ;  and  they  might  have  seen  the 
heavy  packing-case  placed  in  the  cart.  I  felt  no  apprehen- 
sion about  the  safe  arrival  of  the  case  at  Brighton  :  the  three 
men  in  the  cart  were  men  enough  to  take  good  care  of  it. 
My  fears  were  for  the  future.  Oscar  was  living,  entirely  by 
himself,  in  a  lonely  house  more  than  half  a  mile  distant  from 
the  village.  His  fancy  for  chasing  in  the  precious  metals 
might  have  its  dangers,  as  well  as  its  attractions,  if  it  became 
known  beyond  the  pastoral  limits  of  Dimchurch.  Advancing 
from  one  suspicion  to  another,  I  asked  myself  if  the  two  men 
had  roamed  by  mere  accident  into  our  remote  part  of  the 
world,  or  whether  they  had  deliberately  found  their  way  to 
Browndown  with  a  purpose  in  view.  Having  this  doubt  in 
my  niiud,  and  happening  to  encounter  the  old  nurse,  Zillah, 
in  the  garden  as  I  entered  the  rectory  gates  with  my  little 
charge,  I  put  the  question  to  her  plainly, "  Do  you  see  many 
strangers  at  Dimchurch  ?" 

"  Strangers  ?"  repeated  the  old  woman.  "  Excepting  your- 
self, ma'am,  we  see  no  such  tiling  as  a  stranger  here  from 
one  year's  end  to  another." 

I  determined  to  say  a  warning  word  to  Oscar  at  the  first 
convenient  opportunity. 


CHAFrER  THE  ELEVENTH. 

BLIND   LOVE. 

LUCILLA  was  at  the  piano  when  I  entered  the  sitting- 
room. 

"I  wanted  you  of  all  things,"  she  said.  "I  have  sent  all 
over  the  house  in  search  of  you.  Where  have  you  been?" 

I  told  her. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  cry  of  delight. 

"  You  have  persuaded  him  to  trust  you — you  have  discov- 


C8  POOR    MISS    FIXCn. 

ered  every  tiling.  You  only  said  'I  have  been  at  Brown- 
down  ' — and  I  heard  it  in  your  voice.  Out  with  it !  out 
with  it !" 

She  never  moved — she  seemed  hardly  to  breathe — while 
I  was  telling  her  all  that  had  passed  at  the  interview  be- 
tween Oscar  and  me.  As  soon  as  I  had  done  she  got  up  in 
a  violent  hurry,  flushed  and  eager,  and  made  straight  for 
her  bedroom  door. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  asked. 

"I  want  my  hat  and  my  stick,"  she  answered. 

"  You  arc  going  out  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  Can  you  ask  the  question  ?    To  Browndown,  of  course  !" 

I  begged  her  to  wait  a  moment,  and  hear  a  word  or  two 
that  I  had  to  say.  It  is,  I  suppose,  almost  needless  to  add 
that  my  object  in  speaking  to  her  was  to  protest  against  the 
glaring  impropriety  of  her  paying  a  second  visit,  in  one  day, 
to  a  man  who  was  a  stranger  to  her.  I  declared,  in  the 
plainest  terms,  that  such  a  proceeding  would  be  sufficient,  in 
the  estimation  of  any  civilized  community,  to  put  her  repu- 
tation in  peril.  The  result  of  my  interference  was  curious 
and  interesting  in  the  extreme.  It  showed  me  that  the  vir- 
tue called  Modesty  (I  am  not  speaking  of  Decency,  mind)  is 
a  virtue  of  purely  artificial  growth;  and  that  the  successful 
cultivation  of  it  depends,  in  the  first  instance,  not  on  the  in- 
fluence of  the  tongue,  but  on  the  influence  of  the  eye. 

Suppose  the  case  of  an  average  young  lady  (conscious  of 
feeling  a  first  love)  to  whom  I  might  have  spoken  in  the 
sense  that  I  have  just  mentioned — what  would  she  have  done? 

She  would  assuredly  have  shown  some  natural  and  pretty 
confusion,  and  would,  in  all  human  probability,  have  changed 
color  more  or  less  while  she  was  listening  to  me.  Lucilla's 
charming  face  revealed  but  one  expression  —  an  expression 
of  disappointment,  slightly  mixed,  perhaps,  with  surprise.  I 
believed  her  to  be  then,  what  I  knew  her  to  be  afterward,  as 
pure  a  creature  as  ever  walked  the  earth.  And  yet  of  the 
natural  and  becoming  confusion,  of  the  little  inevitable  fem- 
inine changes  of  color  which  I  had  expected  to  see,  not  so 
much  as  a  vestige  appeared — and  this,  remember,  in  the  case 
of  a  person  of  unusually  sensitive  and  impulsive  nature; 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  69 

quick,  on  the  most  trifling  occasions,  to  feel  and  to  express 
its  feelings  in  no  ordinary  degree. 

What  did  it  mean? 

It  meant  that  here  was  one  strange  side  shown  to  me  of 
the  terrible  affliction  that  darkened  her  life.  It  meant  that 
modesty  is  essentially  the  growth  of  our  own  consciousness 
of  the  eyes  of  others  judging  us,  and  that  blindness  is  never 
bashful,  for  the  one  simple  reason  that  blindness  can  not  see. 
The  most  modest  girl  in  existence  is  bolder  with  her  lover 
in  the  dark  than  in  the  light.  The  female  model  who  "sits" 
for  the  first  time  in  a  drawing  academy,  and  who  shrinks 
from  the  ordeal,  is  persuaded,  in  the  last  resort,  to  enter  the 
students'  room  by  having  a  bandage  bound  over  her  eyes. 
My  poor  Lucilla  had  always  the  bandage  over  her  eyes.  My 
poor  Lucilla  was  never  to  meet  her  lover  in  the  light.  She 
had  grown  up  with  the  passions  of  a  woman,  and  yet  she 
had  never  advanced  beyond  the  fearless  and  primitive  inno- 
cence of  a  child.  Ah,  if  ever  there  was  a  sacred  charge  con- 
fided to  any  mortal  creature,  here  surely  was  a  sacred  charge 
confided  to  Me  !  I  could  not  endure  to  see  the  poor  pretty 
blind  face  turned  so  insensibly  toward  mine,  after  such  words 
as  I  had  just  said  to  her.  She  was  standing  within  my 
reach.  I  took  her  by  the  arm,  and  made  her  sit  on  my  knee. 
"My  dear,"  I  said,  very  earnestly,  "  you  must  not  go  to  him 
again  to-day." 

"I  have  got  so  much  to  say  to  him  !"  she  answered,  impa- 
tiently. "I  want  to  tell  him  how  deeply  I  feel  for  him,  and 
how  anxious  I  am  to  make  his  life  a  happier  one  if  I  can. 

"  My  dear  Lucilla !  you  can't  say  this  to  a  young  man. 
It  is  as  good  as  telling  him,  in  plain  words,  that  you  are  fond 
of  him  !" 

"law  fond  of  him." 

"Hush!  hush!  Keep  it  to  yourself  until  you  are  sure 
that  lie  is  fond  of  you.  It's  the  man's  place,  my  love,  not 
the  woman's,  to  own  the  truth  first  in  matters  of  this  sort." 

"This  is  very  hard  on  the  women.  If  they  feel  it  first, 
they  ought  to  own  it  first."  She  paused  for  a  moment,  con- 
sidering with  herself,  and  abruptly  got  oft*  my  knee.  "I 
must  speak  to  him  !"  she  burst  out;  '*  I  muitt  tell  him  that  I 
have  heard  his  story,  and  that  I  think  all  the  better  of  him 
after  it,  instead  of  the  worse  !" 


70  TOOK    MISS    FINCH. 

She  was  again  on  her  way  to  get  her  hat.  My  only  chance 
of  stopping  her  was  to  invent  a  compromise. 

"  Write  him  a  note,"  I  said,  and  then  suddenly  remember- 
ed that  she  was  blind.  "You  shall  dictate,"  I  added,  "and 
I  will  hold  the  pen.  Be  content  with  that  for  to-day.  For 
my  sake,  Lucilla !" 

She  yielded,  not  very  willingly,  poor  tiling.  But  she  jeal- 
ously declined  to  let  me  hold  the  pen. 

"My  first  note  to  him  must  be  all  written  by  me"  she 
said.  ''  I  can  write,  in  my  own  roundabout  way.  It's  long 
and  tiresome;  but  still  I  can  do  it.  Come,  and  see." 

She  led  the  way  to  a  writing-table  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  and  sat  for  a  while,  with  the  pen  in  her  hand,  think- 
ing. Her  irresistible  smile  broke  suddenly  like  a  glow  of 
light  over  her  face.  "Ah  !"  she  exclaimed,"!  know  how  to 
tell  him  what  I  think  !" 

Guiding  the  pen  in  her  right  hand  with  the  fingers  of  her" 
left  hand,  she  wrote  slowly,  in  large  childish  characters,  these 
words : 

"  DEAR  MB.  OSCAR, — I  have  heard  all  about  you.  Please 
send  me  the  little  gold  vase. 

"Your  friend,  LUCILLA." 

She  inclosed  and  directed  the  letter,  and  clapped  her 
hands  for  joy.  "He  will  know  what  that  means!"  she  said, 

say]y. 

It  was  useless  to  attempt  making  a  second  remonstrance. 
I  rang  the  bell,  under  protest  (imagine  her  receiving  a  pres- 
ent from  a  gentleman  to  whom  she  had  spoken  for  the  first 
time  that  morning!),  and  the  groom  was  sent  oflf  to  Brown- 
down  with  the  letter.  In  making  this  concession  I  private- 
ly said  to  myself,  "I  shall  keep  a  tight  hand  over  Oscar;  lie- 
is  the  most  manageable  person  of  the  two!" 

The  interval  before  the  return  of  the  nurse  was  not  an 
easy  interval  to  fill  up.  I  proposed  some  music.  Lucilla 
was  still  too  full  of  her  new  interest  to  be  able  to  give  her 
attention  to  any  thing  else.  She  suddenly  remembered  that 
her  father  and  her  step-mother  ought  both  to  be  informed 
that  Mr.  Dubourg  was  a  perfectly  presentable  person  at  the 
rectory.  She  decided  on  writing  to  her  father. 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  1 

On  tliis  occasion  she  made  no  difficulty  about  permitting 
me  to  hold  the  pen  while  she  told  me  what  to  write.  We 
produced  between  us  rather  a  flighty,  enthusiastic,  high- 
flown  sort  of  letter.  I  felt  by  no  means  sure  that  we  should 
raise  a  favorable  impression  of  our  new  neighbor  in  the  mind 
of  Reverend  Finch.  That  was,  however,  not  my  affair.  I 
appeared  to  excellent  advantage  in  the  matter  as  the  judi- 
cious foreign  lady  who  had  insisted  on  making  inquiries. 
For  the  rest,  it  was  a  point  of  honor  with  me — \vriting  for  a 
person  who  was  blind — not  to  change  a  single  word  in  the 
sentences  which  Lucilla  dictated  to  me.  The  letter  com- 
pleted, I  wrote  the  address  of  the  house  in  Brighton  at  which 
Mr.  Finch  then  happened  to  be  staying;  and  I  was  next 
about  to  close  the  envelope  in  due  course — when  Lucilla 
stopped  me. 

"  Wait  a  little,"  she  said.     "  Don't  close  the  letter  yet," 

I  wondered  why  the  envelope  was  to  be  left  open,  and" 
why  Lucilla  looked  a  little  confused  when  she  forbade  mo  to 
close  it.  Another  unexpected  revelation  of  the  influence  of 
their  affliction  on  the  natures  of  the  blind  was  waiting  10 
enlighten  me  on  those  two  points. 

After  consultation  between  us  it  had  been  decided,  at  Lu- 
cilla's  express  request,  that  I  should  inform  Mrs.  Finch  that 
the  mystery  at  Browndown  was  now  cleared  up.  Lucilla 
openly  owned  to  having  no  great  relish  for  the  society  of 
her  step-mother,  or  for  the  duty  invariably  devolving  on  any 
body  who  was  long  in  the  company  of  that  fertile  lady  of 
either  finding  her  handkerchief  or  holding  her  baby.  A 
duplicate  key  of  the  door  of  communication  between  the  two 
sides  of  the  house  was  given  to  me,  and  I  left  the  room. 

Before  performing  my  errand  I  went  for  a  minute  into  my 
bed-chamber  to  put  away  my  hat  and  my  parasol.  Return- 
ing into  the  corridor,  and  passing  the  door  of  the  sitting- 
room,  I  found  that  it  had  been  left  ajar  by  some  one  who 
had  entered  after  I  had  left,  and  I  heard  Lucilla's  voice  say, 
"Take  that  letter  out  of  the  envelope,  and  read  it  to  me." 

I  pursued  my  way  along  the  passage — very  slowly,  I  own 
— and  I  heard  the  first  sentences  of  the  letter  which  I  had 
written  under  Lucilla's  dictation  read  aloud  to  her  in  the 
old  nurse's  voice.  The  incurable  suspicion  of  the  blind — al- 
ways abandoned  to  the  same  melancholy  distrust  of  the  per 


72  POOR    MISS    FIXCII. 

sons  about  thc'in,  always  doubting  whether  some  deceit  is 
not  being  practiced  on  them  by  the  happy  people  who  can 
see — had  urged  Lucilla,  even  in  the  trifling  matter  of  the  let- 
ter, to  put  me  to  the  test  behind  my  back.  She  was  using 
Zillah's  eyes  to  make  sure  that  I  had  really  written  all  that 
she  had  dictated  to  me,  exactly  as,  on  many  an  alter  occa- 
sion, she  used  my  eyes  to  make  sure  of  Zillah's  complete 
performance  of  tasks  allotted  to  her  in  the  house.  No  expe- 
rience of  the  faithful  devotion  of  those  Avho  live  with  them 
ever  thoroughly  satisfies  the  blind.  Ah,  poor  things,  always 
in  the  dark  !  always  in  the  dark  ! 

In  opening  the  door  of  communication  it  appeared  as  if  I 
had  also  opened  all  the  doors  of  all  the  bed-chambers  in  the 
rectory.  The  moment  I  stepped  into  the  passage  out  pop- 
ped the  children  from  one  room  after  another,  like  rabbits 
out  of  their  burrows. 

"Where  is  your  mami::a?"  I  asked. 

The  rabbits  answered  by  one  universal  shriek,  and  popped 
back  again  into  their  burrows. 

I  went  down  the  stairs  to  try  my  luck  on  the  ground-floor. 
The  window  on  the  landing  l.ad  a  view  over  the  front  gar- 
den. I  looked  out,  and  saw  the  irrepressible  Arab  of  the 
family,  our  small,  chubby  Jicks,  wandering  in  the  garden  all 
by  herself,  evidently  on  the  watch  for  her  next  opportunity 
of  escaping  from  the  house.  This  curious  little  creature, 
cared  nothing  for  the  society  of  the  other  children.  In- 
doors, she  sat  gravely  retired  in  corners,  taking  her  meals 
(whenever  she  could)  on  the  floor.  Out-of-doors,  she  roamed 
till  she  could  walk  no  longer,  and  then  lay  down  any  where, 
like  a  little  animal,  to  sleep.  She  happened  to  look  up  as  I 
stood  at  the  window.  Seeing  me,  she  waved  her  hands  in- 
dicatively  in  the  direction  of  the  rectory  gate.  ''What  is 
it?"  I  asked.  The  Arab  answered,  "Jicks -wants  to  get 
out." 

At  the  same  moment  the  screaming  of  a  baby  below  in- 
formed me  that  I  was  in  the  near  neighborhood  of  Mrs. 
Finch. 

I  advanced  toward  the  noise,  and  found  myself  standing 
before  the  open  door  of  a  large  store-room  at  the  extreme 
end  of  the  passage.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  (issuing 
household  commodities  to  the  cook)  sat  Mrs.  Finch.  She 


POOR  MISS   FINCH.  73 

was  robed  this  time  in  a  petticoat  and  a  shawl ;  and  she  had 
the  baby  and  the  novel  laid  together  flat  on  their  backs  in 
her  lap. 

"Eight  pounds  of  soap?  Where  does  it  all  go  to,  I  won- 
der!" groaned  Mrs.  Finch,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
baby's  screams.  "Five  pounds  of  soda  for  the  laundry? 
One  would  think  we  did  the  washing  for  the  whole  village. 
Six  pounds  of  candles  ?  You  must  eat  candles  like  the  Rus- 
sians. Who  ever  heard  of  burning  six  pounds  of  caudles  in 
a  week  ?  Ten  pounds  of  sugar  ?  Who  gets  it  all  ?  I  never 
taste  sugar  from  one  year's  end  to  another.  Waste,  nothing 
but  waste !"  Here  Mrs.  Finch  looked  my  way,  and  saw  mo 
at  the  door.  "Oh,  Madame  Pratolungo?  How  d'ye  do? 
Don't  go  away.  I've  just  done. — A  bottle  of  blacking  ?  My 
shoes  are  a  disgrace  to  the  house.  Five  pounds  of  rice  ?  If 
I  had  Indian  servants,  five  pounds  of  rice  would  last  them 
for  a  year.  There !  take  the  things  away  into  the  kitchen. 
— Excuse  my  dress,  Madame  Pratolungo.  How  am  I  to 
dress,  with  all  I  have  got  to  do?  What  do  you  say?  My 
time  must,  indeed,  be  fully  occupied  ?  Ah,  that's  just  where 
it  is!  When  yon  have  lost  half  an  hour  in  the  morning,  and 
can't  pick  it  up  again — to  say  nothing  of  having  the  store- 
room on  your  mind,  and  the  children's  dinner  late,  and  the 
baby  fractious — one  slips  on  a  petticoat  and  a  shawl,  and 
gives  it  np  in  despair.  Wliat  can  I  have  done  with  my 
handkerchief?  Would  you  mind  looking  among  those  bot- 
tles behind  you  ?  Oh,  here  it  is  under  the  baby.  Might  1 
trouble  you  to  hold  my  book  for  one  moment  ?  I  think  the 
baby  will  be  quieter  if  I  put  him  the  other  way."  Here 
Mrs.  Finch  turned  the  baby  over  on  his  stomach,  and  patted 
him  briskly  on  the  back.  At  this  change  in  his  circumstan- 
ces the  unappeasable  infant  only  roared  louder  than  ever. 
His  mother  appeared  to  be  perfectly  unaffected  by  the  noise. 
This  resigned  domestic  martyr  looked  placidly  up  at  me  as 
I  stood  before  her,  bewildered,  with  the  novel  in  my  hand. 
"  Ah,  that's  a  very  interesting  story,"  she  went  on.  "Plenty 
of  love  in  it,  you  know.  You  have  come  for  it,  haven't  you? 
I  remember  I  promised  to  lend  it  to  you  yesterday."  Before 
I  could  answer,  the  cook  appeared  again  in  search  of  more 
household  commodities.  Mrs.  Finch  repeated  the  woman's 
demands,  one  by  one  as  she  made  them,  in  tones  of  despair. 

D 


74  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

"Another  bottle  of  vinegar?  I  believe  you  water  the  gar- 
den with  vinegar!  More  starch?  The  Queen's  washing, 
I'm  firmly  persuaded,  doesn't  come  to  as  much  as  ours. 
Sand-paper?  Sand-paper  means  waste-paper  in  this  profli- 
gate house.  I  shall  tell  your  master.  I  really  can  NOT 
make  the  housekeeping  money  last  at  this  rate. — Don't  go, 
Madame  Pratolungo !  I  shall  have  done  directly.  What? 
You  must  go?  Oh,  then,  put  the  book  back  on  my  lap, 
please,  and  look  behind  that  sack  of  flour.  The  first  volume 
slipped  down  there  this  morning,  and  I  haven't  had  time  to 
pick  it  up  since. — Sand-paper  !  Do  you  think  I'm  made  of 
sand-paper? — Have  you  found  the  first  volume?  Ah, that's 
it.  All  over  flour.  There's  a  hole  in  the  sack,  I  suppose. — 
Twelve  sheets  of  sand-paper  used  in  a  week!  What  for? 
I  defy  any  of  you  to  tell  me  what  for.  Waste !  waste ! 
shameful,  sinful  waste  !"  At  this  point  in  Mrs.  Finch's  lam- 
entations I  made  my  escape  with  the  book,  and  left  the  sub- 
ject of  Oscar  Dubourg  to  be  introduced  at  a  fitter  oppor- 
tunity. The  last  words  I  heard,  through  the  screams  of  the 
baby,  as  I  ascended  the  stairs,  were  words  still  relating  to 
the  week's  prodigal  consumption  of  sand-paper.  Let  ^us 
drop  a  tear,  if  you  please,  over  the  woes  of  Mrs.  Finch,  and 
leave  the  British  matron  apostrophizing  domestic  economy 
in  the  odorous  seclusion  of  her  own  store-room. 

I  had  just  related  to  Lucilla  the  failure  of  my  expedition 
to  the  other  side  of  the  house,  when  the  groom  returned, 
bringing  with  him  the  gold  vase  and  ia  letter. 

Oscar's  answer  was  judiciously  modeled  to  imitate  the 
brevity  of  Lucilla's  note.  "You  have  made  me  a  happy 
man  again.  When  may  I  follow  the  vase  ?"  There,  in  two 
sentences,  was  the  whole  letter. 

I  had  another  discussion  with  Lucilla  relating  to  the  pro- 
priety of  our  receiving  Oscar  in  Reverend  Finch's  absence. 
It  was  only  possible  to  persuade  her  to  wait  until  she  had 
at  least  heard  from  her  father  by  consenting  to  take  another 
walk  toward  Browndown  the  next  morning.  This  new  con- 
cession satisfied  her.  She  had  received  his  present;  she 
had  exchanged  letters  with  him — that  was  enough  to  con- 
tent her  for  the  time. 

"Do  you  think  he  is  getting  fond  of  me?"  she  asked,  the 
last  thing  at  night,  taking  her  gold  vase  to  bed  with  her, 


POOR  MISS   FINCH.  75 

poov  dear  —  exactly  as  she  might  have  taken  a  new  toy  to 
bed  -with  her  when  she  was  a  child.  "Give  him  time,  my 
love,"  I  answered.  <l  It  isn't  every  body  who  can  travel  at 
your  pace  in  such  a  serious  matter  as  this."  My  banter  had 
no  effect  upon  her.  "  Go  away  with  your  candle,"  she  raid. 
"The  darkness  makes  no  difference  to  me.  I  can  see  him  in 
my  thoughts."  She  nestled  her  head  comfortably  on  the 
pillows,  and  tapped  me  saucily  on  the  cheek  as  I  bent  over 
her.  "  Own  the  advantage  I  have  over  you  now,"  she  said. 
"  You  can't  sec  at  night  without  your  candle.  I  could  go 
all  over  the  house  at  this  moment  without  making  a  false 
step  any  where." 

When  I  left  her  that  night,  I  sincerely  believe  "poor  Miss 
Finch"  was  the  happiest  woman  in  England. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWELFTH. 

MR.  FINCH    SMELLS    MONET. 

A  DOMESTIC  alarm  deferred  for  some  hours  our  proposed 
walk  to  Browndown. 

The  old  nurse,  Zillah,  was  taken  ill  in  the  night.  She  was 
so  little  relieved  by  such  remedies  as  we  were  able  to  apply 
that  it  became  necessary  to  summon  the  doctor  in  the  morn- 
in"-.  He  lived  at  some  distance  from  Dimchureh:  and  he 

O  ' 

had  to  send  back  to  his  own  house  for  the  medicines  re- 
quired. As  a  necessary  result  of  these  delays,  it  was  close 
on  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  before  the  medical  remedies 
had  their  effect,  and  the  nurse  was  sufficiently  recovered  to 
permit  of  our  leaving  her  in  the  servants'  care. 

We  had  dressed  for  our  walk  (Lucilla  being  ready  long 
before  I  was),  and  had  got  as  far  as  the  garden  gate  on  our 
way  to  Browndown,  when  we  heard,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wall,  a  man's  voice,  pitched  in  superbly  deep  bass  tones,  pro- 
nouncing these  words : 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir,  there  is  not  the  least  difficulty. 
I  have  only  to  send  the  check  to  my  bankers  at  Brighton." 

Lucilla  started,  and  caught  hold  of  me  by  the  arm. 

"  My  father  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  the  utmost  astonishment. 
"Who  is  he  talking  to?" 

The  key  of  the  gate  was  in  my  possession.     "  What  a 


76  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

grand  voice  your  father  has  got !"  I  said,  as  I  took  the  key 
out  of  my  pocket.  I  opened  the  gate.  There,  confronting 

us  on  the  threshold,  arm  in  arm  as  if  they  had  known  each 
other  from  childhood,  stood  Lucilla's  father  and — Oscar  Du- 
bourg ! 

Reverend  Finch  opened  the  proceedings  by  folding  his 
daughter  affectionately  in  his  arms. 

"My  dear  child!"  he  said,  "I  received  your  letter — your 
most  interesting  letter — this  morning.  The  moment  I  read 
it  I  felt  that  I  owed  a  duty  to  Mr.  Dubourg.  As  pastor  of 
Dimchurch,  it  was  clearly  incumbent  on  me  to  comfort  a 
brother  in  affliction.  I  really  felt,  so  to  speak,  a  longing  to 
hold  out  the  right  hand  of  friendship  to  this  sorely  tried 
man.  I  borrowed  my  friend's  carriage,  and  drove  straight 
to  Browndown.  We  have  had  a  long  and  cordial  talk.  I 
have  brought  Mr.  Dubourg  home  with  me.  He  must  be  one 

^  O 

of  us.  My  dear  child,  Mr.  Dubotirg  must  be  one  of  us.  Let 
me  introduce  you.  My  eldest  daughter — Mr.  Dubourg." 

He  performed  the  ceremony  of  presentation  with  the  most 
impenetrable  gravity,  as  if  he  really  believed  that  Oscar  and 
his  daughter  now  met  each  other  for  the  first  time ! 

Never  had  I  set  my  eyes  on  a  meaner-looking  man  than 
this  rector.  In  height  he  barely  readied  up  to  my  shoulder. 
In  substance  he  was  so  miserably  lean  that  he  looked  the 
living  picture  of  starvation.  He  would  have  made  his  for- 
tune in  the  streets  of  London  if  he  had  only  gone  out  and 
shown  himself  to  the  public  in  ragged  clothes.  His  face 
was  deeply  pitted  with  the  small-pox.  His  short  grizzly 
hair  stood  up  stiff  and  straight  on  his  head  like  hair  fixed  in 
a  broom.  His  small  whitish-gray  eyes  had  a  restless,  inquis- 
itive, hungry  look  in  them  indescribably  irritating  and  un- 
comfortable to  see.  The  one  personal  distinction  he  pos- 
sessed consisted  in  his  magnificent  bass  voice — a  voice  which 
had  no  sort  of  1'ight  to  exist  in  the  person  who  used  it.  Un- 
til one  became  accustomed  to  the  contrast,  there  was  some- 
thing perfectly  unbearable  in  hearing  those  superb  big  tones 
come  out  of  that  contemptible  little  body.  The  famous  Lat- 
in phrase  conveys,  after  all,  the  best  description  I  can  give 
of  Reverend  Finch.  He  was  in  very  truth — Voice,  and  noth- 
ing else. 

"Madame  Pratolungo,  no  doubt?"  he  went  on,  turning  to 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  77 

me.  "Delighted  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  my  daughter's 
judicious  companion  and  friend.  You  must  be  one  of  us — 
like  Mr.  Dubourg.  Let  me  introduce  you.  Madame  Prato- 
lurigo — Mr.  Dubourg. — This  is  the  old  side  of  the  rectory, 
my  dear  Sir.  We  had  it  put  in  repair  —  let  me  see;  how 
long  since? — we  had  it  put  in  repair  just  after  Mrs.  Finch's 
last  confinement  but  one."  (I  soon  discovered  that  Mr. 
Finch  reckoned  time  by  his  wife's  confinements.)  "  You  will 
find  it  very  curious  and  interesting  inside.  Lucilla,  my 
child  ! — (It  has  pleased  Providence,  Mr.  Dubourg,  to  afflict 
my  daughter  with  blindness.  Inscrutable  Providence!) — 
Lucilla,  this  is  your  side  of  the  house.  Take  Mr.  Dubourg's 
arm,  and  lead  the  way.  Do  the  honors,  my  child. — Madame 
Pratolungo,  let  me  offer  you  my  arm.  I  regret  that  I  was 
not  present  when  you  arrived,  to  welcome  you  at  the  rec- 
tory. Consider  yourself— do  pray  consider  yourself — one  of 
us."  He  stopped,  and  lowered  his  prodigious  voice  to  a  con- 
fidential growl.  "Delightful  person, Mr.  Dubourg.  I  can't 
tell  you  how  pleased  I  am  with  him.  And  what  a  sad  story  ! 
Cultivate  Mr.  Dubourg,  my  dear  madam.  As  a  favor  to  Me 
— cultivate  Mr.  Dubourg  !" 

He  said  this  with  an  appearance  of  the  deepest  anxiety — 
and  more,  he  emphasized  it  by  affectionately  squeezing  my 
hand. 

I  have  met  with  a  great  many  audacious  people  in  my 
time.  But  the  audacity  of  Reverend  Finch — persisting  to 
our  faces  in  the  assumption  that  he  had  been  the  first  to  dis- 
cover our  neighbor,  and  that  Lucilla  and  I  were  perfectly 
incapable  of  understanding  and  appreciating  Oscar  unassisted 
by  him — was  entirely  without  a  parallel  in  my  experience. 
I  asked  myself  what  his  conduct  in  this  matter — so  entirely 
unexpected  by  Lucilla,  as  well  as  by  me  —  could  possibly 
mean.  My  knowledge  of  his  character,  obtained  through  his 
daughter,  and  my  memory  of  what  we  had  heard  him  say  on 
the  other  side  of  the  wall,  suggested  that  his  conduct  might 
mean — Money. 

We  assembled  in  the  sitting-room. 

The  only  person  among  us  who  was  quite  at  his  ease  was 
Mr.  Finch.  He  never  let  his  daughter  and  his  <nicst  alone 

o 

for  a  single  moment.  "My  child,  show  Mr.  Dubourg  this; 
show  Mr.  Dubourg  that.  —  Mr.  Dubourg,  my  daughter  pos- 


78  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

scsses  this ;  my  daughter  possesses  that."  So  he  went  on  all 
round  the  room.  Oscar  appeared  to  feel  a  little  daunted  by 
the  overwhelming  attentions  of  his  new  friend.  Lucilla  was, 
as  I  could  see,  secretly  irritated  at  finding  herself  authorized 
by  her  father  to  pay  those  attentions  to  Oscar  which  she 
would  have  preferred  offering  to  him  of  her  own  accord. 
As  for  me,  I  was  already  beginning  to  weary  of  the  patron- 
izing politeness  of  the  little  priest  with  the  big  voice.  It 
was  a  relief  to  us  all  when  a  message  on  domestic  affairs  ar- 
rived in  the  midst  of  the  proceedings  from  Mrs.  Finch,  re- 
questing to  see  her  husband  immediately  on  the  rectory  side 
of  the  house. 

Forced  to  leave  us,  Reverend  Finch  made  his  farewell 
speech.  Taking  Oscar's  hand  into  a  kind  of  paternal  custody 
in  both  his  own  hands,  he  spoke  with  such  sonorous  cordiality 
that  the  china  and  glass  ornaments  on  Lucilla's  chiffonnier 
actually  jingled  an  accompaniment  to  his  booming  bass  notes. 

"  Come  to  tea,  my  dear  Sir.  Without  ceremony.  To-night 
at  six.  We  must  keep  up  your  spirits,  Mr.  Dubourg.  Cheer- 
ful society  and  a  little  music. — Lucilla,  my  dear  child,  you 
will  play  for  Mr.  Dubourg, won't  you?  Madame  Pratolungo 
will  do  the  same — at  My  request — I  am  sure.  We  shall  make 
even  dull  Dimchurch  agreeable  to  our  new  neighbor  before 
we  have  clone.  What  does  the  poet  say  ?  '  Fixed  to  no 
spot  is  happiness  sincere ;  'tis  nowhere  to  be  found,  or  every 
where.'  How  cheering  !  how  true  !  Good-day ;  good-day." 

The  glasses  left  off  jingling.  Mr.  Finch's  wisen  little  legs 
took  him  out  of  the  room. 

The  moment  his  back  was  turned  we  both  assailed  Oscar 
with  the  same  question.  What  had  passed  at  the  interview 
between  the  rector  and  himself? 

Men  are  all  alike  incompetent  to  satisfy  women  when  the 
question  between  the  sexes  is  a  question  of  small  details.  A 
woman  in  Oscar's  position  would  have  been  able  to  relate  to 
us  not  only  the  whole  conversation  with  the  rector,  but  every 
little  trifling  incident  which  had  noticeably  illustrated  it. 
As  things  were,  we  could  only  extract  from  our  unsatisfac- 
tory man  the  barest  outline  of  the  interview.  The  coloring 
and  the  filling  in  we  were  left  to  do  for  ourselves. 

Oscar  had,  on  his  own  confession,  acknowledged  his  visit- 
or's kindness  by  opening  his  whole  heart  to  the  sympathizing 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  79 

rector,  and  placing  that  wary  priest  and  excellent  man  ot 
business  in  possession  of  the  completes!  knowledge  of  all  his 
affairs.  In  return,  Reverend  Finch  had  spoken  in  the  frank- 
est manner  on  his  side.  He  had  drawn  a  sad  picture  of  the 
poverty-stricken  condition  of  Dimchurch,  viewed  as  an  ec- 
clesiastical endowment;  and  he  had  spoken  in  such  feeling 
terms  of  the  neglected  condition  of  the  ancient  and  interest- 
ing church  that  poor  simple  Oscar,  smitten  with  pity,  had 
produced  his  check-book,  and  had  subscribed  on  the  spot 
toward  the  fund  for  repairing  the  ancient  round  tower. 
They  had  been  still  occupied  with  the  subject  of  the  tower 
and  the  subscription  when  we  had  opened  the  garden  gate 
and  had  let  them  in.  Hearing  this,  I. now  understood  the 
motives  under  which  our  reverend  friend  was  acting  as  well 
as  if  they  had  been  my  own.  It  was  plain  to  my  mind  that 
the  rector  had  taken  his  financial  measure  of  Oscar,  and  had 
privately  satisfied  himself  that  if  he  encouraged  the  two 
young  people  in  cultivating  each  other's  society,  money  (to 
use  his  own  phrase)  might  come  of  it.  He  had,  as  I  be- 
lieved, put  forward  "the  round  tower,"  in  the  first  instance, 
as  a  feeler;  and  he  would  follow  it  up  in  due  time  by  an 
appeal  of  a  more  personal  nature  to  Oscar's  well-filled  purse. 
Brief,  he  was,  in  my  opinion,  quite  sharp  enough  (after 
having  studied  his  young  friend's  character)  to  foresee  an 
addition  to  his  income  rather  than  a  subtraction  from  it,  if 
the  relations  between  Oscar  and  his  daughter  ended  in  a 
marriage. 

Whether  Lucilla  arrived, on  her  side, at  the  same  conclusion 
as  mine  is  what  I  can  not  venture  positively  to  declare.  I 
can  only  relate  that  she  looked  ill  at  ease  as  the  facts  came 
out,  and  that  she  took  the  first  opportunity  of  extinguishing 
her  father,  viewed  as  a  topic  of  conversation. 

As  for  Oscar,  it  was  enough  for  him  that  he  had  already 
secured  his  place  as  friend  of  the  house.  He  took  leave  of 
us  in  the  highest  spirits.  I  had  my  eye  on  them  when  he 
and  Lucilla  said  good-by.  She  squeezed  his  hand.  I  saw 
her  do  it.  At  the  rate  at  which  tilings  were  now  going  on 
I  began  to  ask  myself  whether  Reverend  Finch  would  not 
appear  at  tea-time  in  his  robes  of  office,  and  celebrate  the 
marriage  of  his  "  sorely  tried  "  young  friend  between  the 
iirst  cup  and  the  second. 


80  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

At  our  little  social  assembly  in  the  evening  nothing  passed 
worthy  of  much  remark. 

Lucilla  and  I  (I  can  not  resist  recording  this)  were  both 
beautifully  dressed  in  honor  of  the  occasion,  Mrs.  Finch  serv- 
ing us  to  perfection  by  way  of  contrast.  She  had  made  an 
immense  effort — she  was  half  dressed.  Her  evening  costume 
was  an  ancient  green  silk  skirt  (with  traces  of  past  babies 
visible  on  it  to  an  experienced  eye),  topped  by  the  everlasting 
blue  merino  jacket.  "  I  lose  every  thing  belonging  to  me," 
Mrs.  Finch  whispered  in  my  ear.  "  I  have  got  a  body  to 
this  dress,  and  it  can't  be  found  any  where."  The  rector's 
prodigious  voice  was  never  silent:  the  pompous  and  plausi- 
ble little  man  talked,  talked,  talked  in  deeper  and  deeper 
bass,  until  the  very  tea-cups  on  the  table  shuddered  under 
the  influence  of  him.  The  elder  children,  admitted  to  the 
family  festival,  ate  till  they  could  eat  no  more,  stared  till 
they  could  stare  no  more,  yawned  till  they  could  yawn  no 
more — and  then  went  to  bed.  Oscar  got  on  well  with  every 
body.  Mrs.  Finch  was  naturally  interested  in  him  as  one  of 
twins,  though  she  was  also  surprised  and  disappointed  at 
hearing  that  his  mother  had  begun  and  ended  with  his 
brother  and  himself.  As  for  Lucilla,  she  sat  in  silent  happi- 
ness, absorbed  in  the  inexhaustible  delight  of  hearing  Oscar's 
voice.  She  found  as  many  varieties  of  expression  in  listen- 
ing to  her  beloved  tones  as  the  rest  of  us  find  in  looking  at 
our  beloved  face.  We  had  music  later  in  the  evening,  and  I 
then  heard  for  the  first  time  how  charmingly  Lucilla  played. 
She  was  a  born  musician,  with  a  delicacy  and  subtlety  of 
touch  such  as  few  even  of  the  greatest  virtuosi  possess.  Os- 
car was  enchanted.  In  a  word,  the  evening  was  a  success. 

I  contrived  when  our  guest  took  his  departure  to  say  my 
contemplated  word  to  him  in  private  on  the  subject  of  his 
solitary  position  at  Browndown. 

Those  doubts  of  Oscar's  security  in  his  lonely  house,  which 
I  have  described  as  having  been  suggested  to  me  by  the  dis- 
covery of  the  two  ruffians  lurking  under  the  wall,  still  main- 
tained their  place  in  my  mind,  and  still  urged  me  to  warn 
him  to  take  precautions  of  some  sort  before  the  precious 
metals  which  he  had  sent  to  London  to  be  melted  came  back 
to  him  again.  He  gave  me  the  opportunity  I  wanted  by 
looking  at  his  watch  and  apologizing  for  protracting  his 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  81 

visit  to  a  terribly  late  hour  for  the  country — the  hour  of 
midnight. 

"  Is  your  servant  sitting  up  for  you  ?"  I  asked,  assuming 
to  be  ignorant  of  his  domestic  arrangements. 

He  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  great  clumsy  key.  "This  is 
my  only  servant  at  Browndown,"  he  said.  "  By  four  or  five 
in  the  afternoon  the  people  at  the  inn  have  done  all  for  me 
that  I  want.  After  that  time  there  is  nobody  in  the  house 
but  myself." 

He  shook  hands  with  us.  The  rector  escorted  him  as  far 
as  the  front-door.  I  slipped  out  while  they  were  saying  their 
last  words,  and  joined  Oscar  when  he  advanced  alone  into 
the  garden. 

"I  want  a  breath  of  fresh  air,"  I  said.  "I'll  go  with  you 
as  far  as  the  gate." 

He  began  to  talk  of  Lucilla  directly.  I  surprised  him  by  re- 
turning abruptly  to  the  subject  of  his  position  at  Browndown. 

"Do  you  think  it's  wise?"  I  asked,  "  to  be  all  by  yourself 
at  night  in  such  a  lonely  house  as  yours  ?  Why  don't  you 
have  a  man-servant?" 

"I  detest  strange  servants,"  he  answered.  "I  infinitely 
prefer  being  by  myself." 

"  When  do  you  expect  your  gold  and  silver  plates  to  be 
returned  to  you?" 

"  In  about  a  week." 

"  What  would  be  the  value  of  them  in  money,  at  a  rough 
guess  ?" 

"  At  a  rough  guess,  about  seventy  or  eighty  pounds." 

"In  a  week's  time,  then,"  I  said,  "you  will  have  seventy 
or  eighty  pounds'  worth  of  property  at  Browndown — proper- 
ty which  a  thief  need  only  put  into  the  melting-pot  to  have 
no  fear  of  its  being  traced  into  his  hands." 

Oscar  stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

"What  can  you  be  thinking  of?"  he  asked.  "There  are 
no  thieves  in  this  primitive  place." 

"  There  are  thieves  in  other  places,"  I  answered, "  and 
they  may  come  here.  Have  you  forgotten  those  two  men 
whom  we  caught  hanging  about  Browndown  yesterday?" 

He  smiled.  I  had  recalled  to  him  a  humorous  association 
— nothing  more. 

"It  was  not  we  who  caught  them,"  he  said.  "It  was  that 

P  2 


82  POOR  MISS   FINCH. 

strange  child.  What  do  you  say  to  my  having  Jicks  to 
sleep  in  the  house  and  take  care  of  me?" 

"  I  am  not  joking,"  I  rejoined.  "  I  never  met  with  two 
more  ill-looking  villains  in  all  my  life.  The  window  was 
open  when  you  were  telling  me  about  the  necessity  for  melt- 
ing the  plates  again.  They  may  know  as  well  as  we  do  that 
your  gold  and  silver  will  be  returned  after  a  time." 

"What  an  imagination  you  have  got!"  he  exclaimed. 
"You  see  a  couple  of  shabby  excursionists  from  Brighton 
who  have  wandered  to  Dimchurch,  and  you  instantly  trans- 
form them  into  a  pair  of  house-breakers  in  a  conspiracy  to 
rob  and  murder  me.  You  and  my  brother  Nugent  would 
just  suit  each  other.  His  imagination  runs  away  with  him 
exactly  like  yours." 

"Take  my  advice,"  I  answered, gravely.  "Don't  persist 
in  sleeping  at  Brovvndown  without  a  living  creature  in  the 
house  with  you." 

He  was  in  wild  good  spirits.  He  kissed  my  hand,  and 
thanked  me  in  his  voluble,  exaggerated  way  for  the  interest 
that  I  took  in  him.  "  All  right !"  he  said,  as  he  opened  the 
gate.  "  I'll  have  a  living  creature  in  the  house  with  me.  I'll 

o  o 

get  a  dog." 

WTe  parted.  I  had  told  him  what  was  on  my  mind.  I 
could  do  no  more.  After  all,  it  might  be  quite  possible 
that  his  view  was  the  right  one,  and  mine  the  wrong. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTEENTH. 

SECOND    APPEARANCE    OF   JICKS. 

FIVE  more  days  passed. 

During  that  interval  we  saw  our  neighbor  constantly. 
Either  Oscar  came  to  the  rectory  or  we  went  to  Browndown. 
Reverend  Finch  waited,  with  a  masterly  assumption  of  sus- 
pecting nothing,  until  the  relations  between  the  two  young 
people  were  ripe  enough  to  develop  into  relations  of  acknowl- 
edged love.  They  were  already  (under  Lucilla's  influence) 
advancing  rapidly  to  that  point.  You  are  not  to  blame  my 
poor  blind  girl,  if  you  please,  for  frankly  encouraging  the  man 
she  loved.  He  was  the  most  backward  man — viewed  as  a 
suitor — whom  I  ever  met  with.  The  fonder  he  crrew  of  her 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  83 

the  more  timid  and  self-distrustful  he  became.  I  own  I  don't 
like  a  modest  man;  and  I  can  not  honestly  say  that  Mr.  Os- 
car Dubourg,  on  closer  acquaintance,  advanced  himself  much 
in  my  estimation.  Ho\vever,Lucilla  understood  him, and  that 
was  enough.  She  was  determined  to  have  the  completest 
possible  image  of  him  in  her  mind.  Every  body  in  the  house 
who  had  seen  him  (the  children  included)  she  examined  and 
cross-examined  on  the  subject  of  his  personal  appearance,  as 
she  had  already  examined  and  cross-examined  me.  His  feat- 
ures and  his  color,  his  height  and  his  breadth,  his  ornaments 
and  his  clothes— on  all  these  points  she  collected  evidence  in 
every  direction  and  in  the  smallest  detail.  It  was  an  espe- 
cial relief  and  delight  to  her  to  hear  on  all  sides  that  his 
complexion  was  fair.  There  was  no  reasoning  with  her 
against  her  blind  horror  of  dark  shades  of  color,  whether  seen 
in  men,  women,  or  things.  She  was  quite  unable  to  account 
for  it ;  she  could  only  declare  it. 

"  I  have  the  strangest  instincts  of  my  own  about  some 
tilings,"  she  said  to  me  one  day.  "  For  instance,  I  knew  that 
Oscar  was  bright  and  fair — I  mean  I  felt  it  in  myself — on  that 
delightful  evening  when  I  first  heard  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

o  ^ 

It  went  straight  from  my  ear  to  my  heart,  and  it  described 
him  just  as  the  rest  of  you  have  described  him  to  me  since. 
Mrs.  Finch  tells  me  his  complexion  is  lighter  than  mine.  Do 
you  think  so  too?  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  that  he  is  fairer  than 
I  am  !  Did  you  ever  meet  before  with  a  person  like  me?  I 
have  the  oddest  ideas  in  this  blind  head  of  mine.  I  associate 
life  and  beauty  with  light  colors,  and  death  and  crime  with 
dark  colors.  If  I  married  a  man  with  a  dark  complexion, 
and  if  I  recovered  my  sight  afterward,  I  should  run  away 
from  him." 

This  singular  prejudice  of  hers  against  dark  people  was  a 
little  annoying  to  me  on  personal  grounds.  It  was  a  sort  of 
reflection  on  my  own  taste.  Between  ourselves,  the  late 
Doctor  Pratol ungo  was  of  a  fine  mahogany  brown  all  over. 

As  for  affairs  in  general  at  Dimchurch,  my  chronicle  of 
the  five  days  finds  little  to  dwell  on  that  is  worth  record- 
ing. 

We  were  not  startled  by  any  second  appearance  of  the 
two  ruffians  at  Browndown;  neither  was  any  change  made 
by  Oscar  in  his  domestic  establishment.  He  was  favored 


84  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

with  more  than  one  visit  from  our  little  wandering  Jicks. 

o 

On  each  occasion  the  child  gravely  reminded  him  of  his  rash 
promise  to  appeal  to  the  police,  and  visit  with  corporal  pun- 
ishment the  two  ugly  strangers  who  had  laughed  at  her. 
When  were  the  men  to  be  beaten?  and  when  was  Jicks  to  see 
it  ?  Such  were  the  serious  questions  with  which  this  young 
lady  regularly  opened  the  proceedings  on  each  occasion  when 
she  favored  Oscar  with  a  morning  call. 

On  the  sixth  day  the  gold  and  silver  plates  were  returned 
to  Browndown  from  the  manufactory  in  London. 

The  next  morning  a  note  arrived  for  me  from  Oscar.  It 
ran  thus : 

"DEAR  MADAME  PRATOLUNGO, — I  regret  to  inform  you 
that  nothing  happened  to  me  last  night.  My  locks  and  bolts 
are  in  their  usual  good  order,  my  gold  and  silver  plates  are 
safe  in  the  workshop,  and  I  myself  am  now  eating  my  break- 
fast with  an  uncut  throat.  Yours  ever, 

"  OSCAR." 

After  this  there  was  no  more  to  be  said.  Jicks  might  per- 
sist in  remembering  the  two  ill-looking  strangers.  Older 
and  wiser  people  dismissed  them  from  all  further  considera- 
tion. 

Saturday  came — making  the  tenth  day  since  the  memora- 
ble morning  when  I  had  forced  Oscar  to  disclose  himself  to 
me  in  the  little  side  room  at  Browndown. 

In  the  forenoon  we  had  a  visit  from  him  at  the  rectory. 
In  the  afternoon  we  went  to  Browndown  to  see  him  begin  a 
new  piece  of  chasing  in  gold — a  casket  for  holding  gloves — 
destined  to  take  its  place  on  Lucilla's  toilet-table  when  it 
was  done.  We  left  him  industriously  at  work,  determined  to 
go  on  as  long  as  the  daylight  lasted. 

Early  in  the  evening  Lucilla  sat  down  at  her  piano-forte, 
and  I  paid  a  visit  by  appointment  to  the  rectory  side  of  the 
house. 

Unhappy  Mrs.  Finch  had  determined  to  institute  a  com- 
plete reform  of  her  Avardrobe.  She  had  entreated  me  to  give 
her  the  benefit  of"  my  French  taste"  in  the  capacity  of  con- 
fidential critic  and  adviser.  "I  can't  afford  to  buy  any 
new  things,"  said  the  poor  lady.  "  But  a  deal  might  be  done 


POOR   MISS    FINCft  85 

in  altering  what  I  have  got  by  me  if  a  clever  person  took  the 
matter  up."  Who  could  resist  that  piteous  appeal?  I  re- 
signed myself  to  the  baby,  the  novel,  and  the  children  in  gen- 
eral ;  and  (Reverend  Finch  being  out  of  the  way,  writing  his 
sermon)  I  presented  myself  in  Mrs.  Finch's  parlor,  full  of 
ideas,  with  my  scissors  and  my  pattern-paper  ready  in  my 
hand. 

We  had  only  begun  our  operations  when  one  of  the  elder 
children  arrived  with  a  message  from  the  nursery. 

It  was  tea-time ;  and,  as  usual,  Jicks  was  missing.  She 
was  searched  for,  first,  in  the  lower  regions  of  the  house  ; 
secondly,  in  the  garden.  Not  a  trace  of  her  was  to  be  discov- 
ered in  either  quarter.  Nobody  was  surprised  or  alarmed. 
We  said, "  Oh  dear !  she  has  gone  to  Browndown  again  1" 
and  immersed  ourselves  once  more  in  the  shabby  recesses 
of  Mrs.  Finch's  wardrobe. 

I  had  just  decided  that  the  blue  merino  jacket  was  an  ar- 
ticle of  wearing  apparel  which  had  done  its  duty,  arid  earned 
its  right  to  a  final  retirement  from  the  scene,  when  a  plaint- 
ive cry  reached  my  ear  through  the  open  door  which  led  into 
the  back  garden; 

I  stopped  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Finch. 

The  cry  was  repeated,  louder  and  nearer — recognizable 
this  time  as  a  cry  in  a  child's  voice.  The  door  of  the  room 
had  been  left  ajar  when  we  sent  the  messenger  back  to  the 
nursery.  I  threw  it  open,  and  found  myself  face  to  face  with 
Jicks  in  the  passage. 

I  felt  every  nerve  in  my  body  shudder  at  the  sight  of  the 
child. 

The  poor  little  thing  was  white  and  wild  with  terror. 
She  w:is  incapable  of  uttering  a  word.  When  I  knelt  down 
to  fondle  and  soothe  her  she  caught  convulsively  at  my  hand, 
and  attempted  to  raise  me.  I  got  on  my  feet  again.  She  re- 
peated her  dumb  cry  more  loudly,  and  tried  to  drag  me  out 
of  the  house.  She  was  so  weak  that  she  staggered  under  the 
effort.  I  took  her  up  in  my  arms.  Ojic  of  my  hands,  as  I 
embraced  her,  touched  the  top  of  her  frock,  just  below  the 
back  of  her  neck.  I  felt  something  on  my  lingers.  I  looked 
at  them.  Gracious  God  !  I  was  stained  with  blood  ! 

I  turned  the  child  round.  My  own  blood  froze.  Her 
mother,  standing  behind  me,  screamed  with  horror. 


80  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

The  dear  little  thing's  white  frock  was  spotted  and  splash- 
ed with  wet  blood.  Not  her  own  blood.  There  was  not  a 
scratch  on  her.  I  looked  closer  at  the  horrid  marks.  They 
had  been  drawn  purposely  on  her — drawn,  as  it  seemed,  with 
a  finger.  I  took  her  out  into  the  light.  It  was  writing  !  A 
word  had  been  feebly  traced  on  the  back  of  her  frock.  I 
made  out  something  like  the  letter  "  H."  Then  a  letter  which 
it  was  impossible  to  read.  Then  another  next  to  it,  which 
might  have  been  "  L,"  or  might  have  been  "j."  Then  a  last 
letter,  which  I  guessed  to  be  "  P." 

Was  the  word— "Help?" 

Yes ! — traced  on  the  back  of  the  child's  frock,  with  a  fin- 
ger dipped  in  blood — "  HELP." 


CHAPTER  THE  FOURTEENTH. 

DISCOVERIES    AT    BROWNDOWN. 

IT  is  needless  to  tell  you  at  what  conclusion  I  arrived  as 
soon  as  I  was  sufficiently  myself  to  think  at  all. 

Thanks  to  my  adventurous  past  life,  I  have  got  the  habit 
of  deciding  quickly  in  serious  emergencies  of  all  sorts.  In 
the  present  emergency — as  I  saw  it — there  were  two  things 
to  be  done.  One,  to  go  instantly  with  help  to  Browndown  ; 
the  other,  to  keep  the  knowledge  of  what  had  happened  from 
Lucilla  until  I  could  get  back  again  and  prepare  her  for  the 
discovery. 

I  looked  at  Mrs.  Finch.  She  had  dropped  helplessly  into 
a  chair.  "Rouse  yourself!"  I  said,  and  shook  her.  It  was 
no  time  for  sympathizing  with  swoons  and  hysterics.  The 
child  was  still  in  my  arms,  fast  yielding,  poor  little  thing,  to 
the  exhaustion  of  fatigue  and  terror.  I  could  do  nothing  un- 
til I  had  relieved  myself  of  the  charge  of  her.  Mrs.  Finch 
looked  up  at  me,  trembling  and  sobbing.  I  put  the  child  in 
her  lap.  Jicks  feebly  resisted  being  parted  from  me ;  but 
soon  gave  up,  and  dropped  her  weary  little  head  on  her 
mother's  bosom.  "Can  you  take  off  her  frock?"  I  asked, 
with  another  shake — a  good  one  this  time. 

The  prospect  of  a  domestic  occupation  (of  any  sort)  ap- 
peared to  rouse  Mrs.  Finch.  She  looked  at  the  baby,  in  its 
cradle  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  at  the  novel,  reposing 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  89 

on  a  chair  in  another  corner  of  the  room.  The  presence  of 
these  two  familiar  objects  appeared  to  encourage  her.  She 
shivered,  she  swallowed  a  sob,  she  recovered  her  breath,  she 
began  to  undo  the  frock. 

"Put  it  away  carefully,"  I  said,  "and  say  nothing  to  any 
body  of  what  lias  happened  until  I  come  back.  You  can  see 
for  yourself  that  the  child  is  not  hurt.  Soothe  her,  and  wait 
here.  Is  Mr.  Finch  in  the  study?" 

Mrs.  Finch  swallowed  another  sob,  and  said,  Yes.  The 
child  made  a  last  effort.  "  Jicks  will  go  with  you,"  said  the 
indomitable  little  Arab,  faintly.  I  ran  out  of  the  room,  and 
left  the  three  babies — big,  little,  and  least — together. 

After  knocking  at  the  study  door  without  getting  any  re- 
ply, I  opened  it  and  went  in.  Reverend  Finch,  comfortably 
prostrate  in  a  large  arm-chair  (with  his  sermon-paper  spread 
out  in  fair  white  sheets  by  his  side),  started  up,  and  confront- 
ed me  in  the  character  of  a  clergyman  that  moment  awak- 
ened from  a  sound  sleep. 

The  rector  of  Dimchurch  instantly  recovered  his  dignity. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Madame  Pratolungo, I  was  deep  in 
thought.  Please  state  your  business  briefly."  Saying  those 
words,  he  waved  his  hand  magnificently  over  his  empty 
sheets  of  paper,  and  added  in  his  deepest  bass :  "  Sermon 
day !" 

I  told  him  in  the  plainest  words  what  I  had  seen  on  his 
child's  frock,  and  what  I  feared  had  happened  at  Browndown. 
He  turned  deadly  pale.  If  I  ever  yet  set  my  two  eyes  on  a 
man  thoroughly  frightened,  Reverend  Finch  was  that  man. 

"Do  you  anticipate  danger?"  he  inquired.  "Is  it  your 
opinion  that  criminal  persons  are  in  or  near  the  house?" 

"  It  is  my  opinion  that  there  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost," 
I  answered.  "We  must  go  to  Browndown;  and  we  must 
get  what  help  we  can  on  the  way." 

I  opened  the  door,  and  waited  for  him  to  come  out  with 
me.  Mr.  Finch  (still  apparently  pre-occupied  with  the  ques- 
tion of  the  criminal  persons)  looked  as  if  he  wished  himself  a 
hundred  miles  from  his  own  rectory  at  that  particular  mo- 
ment. But  he  was  the  master  of  the  house ;  he  was  the 
principal  man  in  the  place — he  had  no  other  alternative,  as 
matters  now  stood,  than  to  take  his  hat  and  go. 

We  went   out   together   into   the  village.     My  reverend 


90  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

companion  was  silent  for  the  first  time  in  my  limited  experi- 
ence of  him.  We  inquired  for  the  one  policeman  who  patrol- 
led the  district.  He  was  away  on  his  rounds.  We  asked  if 
any  body  had  seen  the  doctor.  No;  it  was  not  the  doctor's 
day  for  visiting  Dimchurch.  I  had  heard  the  landlord  of 
the  Cross  Hands  described  as  a  capable  and  respectable  man  ; 
and  I  suggested  stopping  at  the  inn  and  taking  him  with  us. 
Mr.  Finch  instantly  brightened  at  that  proposal.  His  sense 
of  his  own  importance  rose  again,  like  the  mercury  in  a  ther- 
mometer when  you  put  it  into  a  warm  bath. 

"  Exactly  what  I  was  about  to  suggest,"  he  said.  "  Gooth- 
eridge,  of  the  Cross  Hands,  is  a  very  worthy  person — for  his 
station  in  life.  Let  us  have  Gootheridge,  by  all  means. 
Don't  be  alarmed,  Madame  Pratolungo.  We  are  all  in  the 
hands  of  Providence.  It  is  most  fortunate  for  you  that  I  was 
at  home.  What  would  you  have  done  without  me  ?  Now 
don't,  pray  don't,  be  alarmed.  In  case  of  criminal  persons — 
I  have  my  stick,  as  you  see.  I  am  not  tall,  but  I  possess  im- 
mense physical  strength.  I  am,  so  to  speak,  all  muscle. 
Feel !" 

He  held  out  one  of  his  wizen  little  arms.  It  was  about 
half  the  size  of  my  arm.  If  I  had  not  been  far  too  anxious 
to  think  of  playing  tricks,  I  should  certainly  have  declared 
that  it  was  needless,  with  such  a  tower  of  strength  by  my 
side,  to  disturb  the  landlord.  I  dare  not  assert  that  Mr.  Finch 
actually  detected  the  turn  my  thoughts  were  taking — I  can 
only  declare  that  he  did  certainly  shout  for  Gootheridge  in  a 
violent  hurry  the  moment  we  were  in  sight  of  the  inn. 

The  landlord  came  out ;  and,  hearing  what  our  errand  was, 
instantly  consented  to  join  us. 

"Take  your  gun,"  said  Mr.  Finch. 

Gootheridge  took  his  gun.  We  hastened  on  to  the 
house. 

"  Were  Mrs.  Gootheridge  or  your  daughter  at  Browndown 
to-day  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yes, ma'am;  they  were  both  at  Browndown.  They  fin- 
ished up  their  wrork  as  usual,  and  left  the  house  more  than 
an  hour  since." 

"  Did  any  thing  out  of  the  common  happen  while  they 
were  there  ?" 

"Nothing  that  I  hoard  of,  ma'am." 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  91 

I  considered  with  myself  for  a  minute,  and  ventured  on 
putting  a  few  more  questions  to  Mr.  Gootheridge. 

"Have  any  strangers  been  seen  here  this  evening?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  Nearly  an  hour  ago  two  strangers  drove 
by  my  house  in  a  chaise." 

"  In  what  direction  ?" 

"Coming  from  Brighton  way,  and  going  toward  Brown- 
down." 

"  Did  you  notice  the  men  ?" 

"  Not  particularly,  ma'am.     I  was  busy  at  the  time." 

A  sickening  suspicion  that  the  two  strangers  in  the  chaise 
might  be  the  two  men  whom  I  had  seen  lurking  under  the 
wall  forced  its  way  into  my  mind.  I  said  no  more  until 
we  reached  the  house. 

All  was  quiet.  The  one  sign  of  any  thing  unusual  was  in 
the  plain  traces  of  the  passage  of  wheels  over  the  turf  in  front 
of  Browndown.  The  landlord  was  the  first  to  see  them. 
"The  chaise  must  have  stopped  at  the  house,  Sir,"  he  said, 
addressing  himself  to  the  rector. 

Reverend  Finch  was  suffering  under  a  second  suspension 
of  speech.  All  he  could  say  as  we  approached  the  door  of 
the  silent  and  solitary  building — and  he  said  that  with  ex- 
treme difficulty — was, "  Pray  let  us  be  careful !" 

The  landlord  was  the  first  to  reach  the  door.  I  was  behind 
him.  The  rector — at  some  little  distance — acted  as  rear- 
guard, with  the  South  Downs  behind  him  to  retreat  upon. 
Gootheridge  rapped  smartly  on  the  door,  and  called  out, 
*•  Mr.  Dubourg  !"  There  was  no  answer.  There  was  only  a 
dreadful  silence.  The  suspense  was  more  than  I  could  en- 
dure. I  pushed  by  the  landlord,  and  turned  the  handle  of 
the  unlocked  door. 

"  Let  me  go  first,  ma'am,"  said  Gootheridge. 

He  pushed  by  me  in  his  turn.  I  followed  him  close. 
We  entered  the  house,  and  called  again.  Again  there  was 
no  answer.  We  looked  into  the  little  sitting-room  on 
one  side  of  the  passage,  and  into  the  dining-room  on  the 
other.  Both  were  empty.  We  went  on  to  the  back  of 
the  house,  where  the  room  was  situated  which  Oscar 
called  his  workshop.  When  \ve  tried  the  door  of  the 
workshop  it  was  locked. 


92  POOR    MISS    FIXCH. 

We  knocked,  and  called  again.  The  horrid  silence  was  all 
that  followed,  as  before. 

I  tried  the  key-hole  with  my  finger.  The  key  was  not  in 
the  lock.  I  knelt  down  and  looked  through  the  key-hole. 
The  next  instant  I  was  up  again  on  my  feet,  wild  and  giddy 
with  horror. 

"  Burst  open  the  door !"  I  screamed.  "  I  can  just  see  his 
hand  lying  on  the  floor !" 

The  landlord,  like  the  rector,  was  a  little  man  ;  and  the 
door,  like  every  thing  else  at  Browndown,  was  of  the  clumsi- 
est and  heaviest  construction.  Unaided  l>y  instruments,  we 
should  all  three  together  have  been  too  weak  to  burst  it 
open.  In  this  difficulty,  Reverend  Finch  proved  to  be — for 
the  first  time,  and  also  for  the  last — of  some  use. 

"  Stay !"  he  said.  "  My  friends,  if  the  back  garden  gate  is 
open,  we  can  get  in  by  the  window." 

Neither  the  landlord  nor  I  had  thought  of  the  window. 
We  ran  round  to  the  back  of  the  house,  seeing  the  marks  of 
the  chaise  wheels  leading  in  the  same  direction.  The  gate 
in  the  wall  was  wide  open.  We  crossed  the  little  garden. 
The  window  of  the  workshop — opening  to  the  ground- 
gave  us  admission,  as  the  rector  had  foretold.  We  entered 
the  room. 

There  he  la)' — poor,  harmless,  unlucky  Oscar — senseless,  in 
a  pool  of  his  own  blood.  A  blow  on  t!ie  left  side  of  his  head 
.had,  to  all  appearance,  felled  him  on  the  spot.  The  wound 
had  split  the  scalp.  Whether  it  had  also  split  the  skull  was 
more  than  I  was  surgeon  enough  to  be  able  to  say.  I  had 
gathered  some  experience  of  how  to  deal  with  wounded  men 
when  I  served  the  sacred  cause  of  Freedom  with  my  glori- 
ous Pratolungo.  Cold  water,  vinegar,  and  linen  for  band- 
ages— these  were  all  in  the  house,  and  these  I  called  for. 
Gootheridge  found  the  key  of  the  door  flung  aside  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  room.  He  got  the  water  and  the  vinegar,  while  I 
ran  up  stairs  to  Oscar's  bedroom  and  provided  myself  with 
some  of  his  handkerchiefs.  In  a  few  minutes  I  had  a  cold- 
water  bandage  over  the  wound,  and  was  bathing  his  face  in 
vinegar  and  water.  He  was  still  insensible;  but  he  lived. 
Reverend  Finch — not  of  the  slightest  help  to  any  body — as- 
sumed the  duty  of  feeling  Oscar's  pulse.  He  did  it  as  if,  un- 
der the  circumstances,  this  was  the  one  meritorious  action 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  03 

that  could  be  performed.  He  looked  ns  if  nobody  could  feel 
a  pulse  but  himself.  "  Most  fortunate,"  he  said,  counting  the 
slow,  faint  throbbing  at  the  poor  fellow's  wrist — "  most  for- 
tunate that  I  was  at  home.  What  would  you  have  done 
without  me?" 

The  next  necessity  was,  of  course,  to  send  for  the  doctor, 
and  to  get  help  in  the  mean  time  to  carry  Oscar  up  stairs  to 
his  bed. 

Gootheridge  volunteered  to  borrow  a  horse,  and  to  ride  oft* 
for  the  doctor.  We  arranged  that  he  was  to  send  his  wife 
and  his  wife's  brother  to  help  me.  This  settled,  the  one  last 
embarrassment  left  to  deal  with  was  the  embarrassment  of 
Mr.  Finch.  Now  that  we  were  free  from  all  fear  of  encoun- 
tering bad  characters  in  the  house,  the  boom-boom  of  the  lit- 
tle man's  big  voice  went  on  unintermittingly,  like  a  machine 
at  work  in  the  neighborhood.  I  had  another  of  my  inspira- 
tions— sitting  on  the  floor  with  Oscnr's  head  on  my  lap.  I 
gave  my  reverend  companion  something  to  do.  "  Look  about 
the  room,"  I  said:  "see  if  the  packing-case  with  the  gold 
and  silver  plates  is  here  or  not." 

Mr.  Finch  did  not  quite  relish  being  treated  like  an  ordi- 
nary mortal,  and  being  told  what  he  was  to  do. 

"  Compose  yourself,  Madame  Pratolungo,"  he  said.  "  No 
hysterical  activity,  if  you  please.  This  business  is  in  My 
hands.  Quite  needless,  ma'am,  to  tell  Me  to  look  for  the 
packing-case." 

"  Quite  needless,"  I  agreed.  "  I  know  beforehand  the 
packing-case  is  gone." 

That  answer  instantly  set  him  fussing  about  the  room. 
Not  a  sign  of  a  case  was  to  be  seen. 

All  doubt  in  my  mind  was  at  an  end  now.  The  two  ruf- 
fians lounging  against  the  wall  had  justified — horribly  justi- 
fied—  my  worst  suspicions  of  them. 

On  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Gootheridge  and  her  brother  we 
carried  him  up  to  his  room.  We  laid  him  on  the  bed,  with 
his  neck-tie  off  and  his  throat  free,  and  the  air  blowing  over 
him  from  the  open  window.  He  showed  no  sign  yet  of  com- 
ing to  his  senses.  But  still  the  pulse  went  faintly  on.  No 
change  was  discernible  for  the  worse. 

It  was  useless  to  hope  for  the  doctor's  arrival  before  an- 
other hour  at  least.  I  felt  the  necessity  of  getting  back  at 


04  POOK   MISS    FINCH. 

once  to  the  rectory,  so  as  to  be  able  to  tell  Lucilla  (with  all 
needful  preparation)  the  melancholy  truth.  Otherwise,  the 
news  of  what  had  happened  would  get  abroad  in  the  village, 
and  might  come  to  her  ears,  in  the  worst  possible  way, 
through  one  of  the  servants.  To  my  infinite  relief,  Mr.  Finch, 
when  I  rose  to  go,  excused  himself  from  accompanying  me. 
He  had  discovered  that  it  was  his  duty,  as  rector,  to  give 
the  earliest  information  of  the  outrage  at  Browndown  to  the 
legal  authorities.  He  went  his  way  to  the  nearest  magistrate. 

O  ti  O 

And  I  went  mine — leaving  Oscar  under  the  care  of  Mrs. 
Gootheridge  and  her  brother — back  to  the  house.  Mr. 
Finch's  last  words  at  parting  reminded  me  once  more  that 
we  had  one  thing  at  least  to  be  thankful  for  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, sad  as  they  otherwise  were. 

"  Most    fortunate,  Madame    Pratolungo,  that    I    was    at 
home.     What  would  you  have  done  without  me  ?" 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTEENTH. 

EVENTS  AT   THE    15EDSIDE. 

I  AM,  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  remember,  constitution- 
ally French,  and,  therefore,  constitutionally  averse  to  distress- 
ing myself,  if  I  can  possibly  help  it.  For  this  reason,  I  real- 
ly can  not  summon  courage  to  describe  what  passed  between 
my  blind  Lucilla  and  me  when  I  returned  to  our  pretty  sit- 
ting-room. She  made  me  cry  at  the  time ;  and  she  would 
make  me  (and  perhaps  you)  cry  again  now,  if  I  wrote  the  lit- 
tle melancholy  story  of  what  this  tender  young  creature  suf- 
fered when  I  told  her  my  miserable  news.  I  won't  write  it! 
I  am  dead  against  tears.  They  affect  the  nose ;  and  my  nose 
is  my  best  feature.  Let  us  use  our  eyes,  my  fair  friends,  to 
conquer — not  to  cry. 

Be  it  enough  to  say  that  when  I  went  back  to  Browndown 
Lucilla  went  with  me. 

I  now  observed  her,  for  the  first  time,  to  be  jealous  of  the 
eyes  of  us  happy  people  who  could  see.  The  instant  she  en- 
tered she  insisted  on  being  near  enough  to  the  bed  to  hear  us 
or  to  touch  us  as  we  waited  on  the  injured  man.  This  was 
at  once  followed  by  her  taking  the  place  occupied  by  Mrs. 
Gootheridge  at  the  bed-head,  and  herself  bathing  Oscar's 


POOH   MISS   FINCH.  95 

face  and  forehead.  She  was  even  jealous  of  me,  when  she 
discovered  that  I  was  moistening  the  bandages  on  the  wound. 
I  irritated  her  into  boldly  kissing  the  poor  insensible  face  in 
our  presence  !  The  landlady  of  the  Cross  Hands  was  one  of 
my  sort — she  took  cheerful  views  of  things.  "  Sweet  on  him, 
eh,  ma'am?"  she  whispered  in  my  ear;  "we  shall  have  a 
wedding  in  Dimchurch.  In  presence  of  these  kissings  and 
whisperings  Mrs.  Gootheridge's  brother,  as  the  only  man  pres- 
ent, began  to  look  very  uncomfortable.  This  worthy  creat-. 
ure  belonged  to  that  large  and  respectable  order  of  English- 
men who  don't  know  what  to  do  with  their  hands,  or  how  to 
get  out  of  a  room.  I  took  pity  on  him ;  he  was,  I  assure  you, 
a  fine  man.  "Smoke  your  pipe,  Sir,  in  the  garden,"  I  said; 
"  we  will  call  to  you  from  the  window  if  we  want  you  up 
here."  Mrs.  Goothcridge's  brother  cast  on  me  one  look  of 
unutterable  gratitude,  and  escaped  as  if  he  had  been  let  out 
of  a  trap. 

At  last  the  doctor  arrived. 

His  first  words  were  an  indescribable  relief  to  us.  The 
skull  of  our  poor  Oscar  was  not  injured.  There  was  concus- 
sion of  the  brain,  and  there  wa;  a  scalp  wound — inflicted  evi- 
dently with  a  blunt  instrument.  As  to  the  wound,  I  had 
done  all  that  was  necessary  in  the  doctor's  absence.  As  to 
the  injury  to  the  brain,  time  and  care  would  put  every  thing 
right  again.  "  Make  your  minds  easy,  ladies,"  said  this  angel 
of  a  man.  "  There  is  no  reason  for  feeling  the  slightest  alarm 
about  him." 

He  came  to  his  senses— that  is  to  say,  he  opened  his  eyes 
and  looked  vacantly  about  him — between  four  and  five  hours 
after  the  time  when  we  had  found  him  on  the  floor  of  the 
workshop. 

His  mind,  poor  fellow,  was  still  all  astray.  He  recognized 
nobody.  He  imitated  the  action  of  writing  with  his  finger, 
and  said,  very  earnestly,  over  and  over  again,  "  Go  home, 
Jicks ;  go  home,  go  home  !" — fancying  himself  (as  I  suppose) 
lying  helpless  on  the  floor,  and  sending  the  child  back  to  us 
to  give  the  alarm.  Later  in  the  night  he  fell  asleep.  All 
through  the  next  day  he  still  wandered  in  his  mind  when  he 
spoke.  It  was  not  till  the  day  after  that  lie  began  feebly  to 
recover  his  reason.  The  first  person  he  recognized  was  Lu- 
cilla.  She  was  engaged  at  the  moment  in  brushing  his  beau- 


V6  POOK    MISS    FINCH. 

tiftil.  chestnut  hair.  To  her  unutterable  joy  he  patted  her 
hand  and  murmured  her  name.  She  bent  over  him ;  and, 
under  cover  of  the  hair-brush,  whispered  something  in  his  ear 
which  made  the  young  fellow's  pale  face  flush,  and  his  dull 
eyes  brighten  with  pleasure.  A  day  or  two  afterward  she 
owned  to  me  that  she  had  said,  "Get  well,  for  my  sake." 
She  \vas  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  having  spoken  to 
that  plain  purpose.  On  the  contrary,  she  triumphed  in  it. 
"Leave  him  to  me,"  said  Lucilla,  in  the  most  positive  man- 
ner. "I  mean  first  to  cure  him,  and  then  I  mean  to  be  his 
wife." 

In  a  week  more  he  was  in  complete  possession  of  his  fac- 
ulties, but  still  wretchedly  weak,  and  only  gaining  ground 
very  slowly  after  the  shock  that  he  had  suffered. 

He  was  now  able  to  tell  us,  by  a  little  at  a  time,  of  what 
had  happened  in  the  workshop. 

After  Mrs.  Gootheridge  and  her  daughter  had  quitted  the 
house  at  their  usual  hour,  he  had  gone  up  to  his  room,  had 
remained  there  some  little  time,  and  had  then  gone  down 
stairs  again.  On  approaching  the  workshop  he  heard  voices 
talking  in  whispers  in  the  room.  The  idea  instantly  occur- 
red to  him  that  something  was  wrong.  He  softly  tried  the 
door,  and  found  it  locked  —  the  robbers  having  no  doubt 
taken  that  precaution  to  prevent  their  being  surprised  at 
their  thieving  work  by  any  person  in  the  house.  The  one 
other  way  of  getting  into  the  room  was  the  Avay  that  we 
had  tried.  He  went  round  to  the  back  garden,  and  found 
an  empty  chaise  drawn  up  outside  the  door.  The  circum- 
stance thoroughly  puzzled  him.  But  for  the  mysterious 
locking  of  the  workshop  door  it  would  have  suggested  to 
him  nothing  more  alarming  than  the  arrival  of  some  unex- 
pected visitors.  Eager  to  solve  the  mystery,  lie  crossed  the 
garden;  and,  entering  the  room,  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  same  two  men  whom  Jicks  had  discovered  ten  days 
previously  lounging  against  the  garden  wall. 

As  he  approached  the  window  they  were  both  busily  en- 
gaged, with  their  backs  toward  him,  in  cording  up  the  pack- 
ing-case which  contained  the  metal  plates. 

They  rose  and  faced  him  as  he  stepped  into  the  room. 
The  act  of  robbery  which  lie  found  them  coolly  perpetrating 


E 


POOH    MISS    FINCH.  99 

in  broad  daylight  instantly  set  his  irritable  temper  in  a 
flame.  He  rushed  at  the  younger  of  the  two  men — being 
the  one  nearest  to  him.  The  ruffian  sprang  aside  out  of  his 
reach,  snatched  up  from  the  table  on  which  it  was  lying 
ready  a  short  loaded  staff  of  leather,  called  "a  life-preserver," 
and  struck  him  with  it  on  the  head  before  he  had  recovered 
himself  and  could  face  his  man  once  more. 

From  that  moment  he  remembered  nothing  until  lie  had 
regained  his  consciousness  after  the  first  shock  of  the  blow. 

He  found  himself  lying,  giddy  and  bleeding,  on  the  floor; 
and  he  saw  the  child  (who  must  have  strayed  into  the  room 
while  he  was  senseless)  standing,  petrified  with  fear,  looking 
at  him.  The  idea  of  making  use  of  her — as  the  only  living 
being  near — to  give  the  alarm,  came  to  him  instinctively  the 
moment  he  recognized  her.  He  coaxed  the  little  creature 
to  venture  within  reach  of  his  hand,  and,  dipping  his  finger 
in  the  blood  that  was  flowing  from,  him,  sent  us  the  terrible 
message  which  I  had  spelled  out  on  the  back  of  her  frock. 
That  done,  he  exerted  his  last  remains  of  strength  to  push 
her  gently  toward  the  open  window,  and  direct  her  to  go 
home.  He  fainted  from  loss  of  blood  while  he  was  still  re- 
peating the  words,  "  Go  home !  go  home  !"  and  still  seeing, 
or  fancying  that  he  saw,  the  child  stopping  obstinately  in 
the  room,  stupefied  with  terror.  Of  the  time  at  which  she 
found  the  courage  and  the  sense  to  run  home,  and  of  all  that 
had  happened  after  that,  he  was  necessarily  ignorant.  His 
next  conscious  impression  was  the  impression,  already  re- 
corded, of  seeing  Lucilla  sitting  by  his  bedside. 

The  account  of  the  matter  thus  given  by  Oscar  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  supplementary  statement  provided  by  the  police. 

The  machinery  of  the  law  was  put  in  action,  and  the  vil- 
lage was  kept  in  a  fever  of  excitement  for  days  together. 
Never  was  there  a  more  complete  investigation — and  never 
was  a  poorer  result  achieved.  Substantially,  nothing  was 
discovered  beyond  what  I  had  already  found  out  for  myself. 
The  robbery  was  declared  to  have  been  (as  I  had  supposed) 
a  planned  thing.  Though  we  had  none  of  us  noticed  them 
at  the  rectory,  it  was  ascertained  that  the  thieves  had  been 
at  Dimchurch  on  the  day  when  the  unlucky  plates  were  first 
delivered  at  Browndown.  Having  taken  their  time  to  ex- 
amine the  house,  and  to  make  themselves  acquainted  with 


JOO  POOR   MISS  FINCH. 

the  domestic  habits  of  the  persons  in  it,  the  rogues  had  paid 
their  second  visit  to  the  village — no  doubt  to  commit  the 
robbery  —  on  the  occasion  when  we  had  discovered  them. 
Foiled  by  the  unexpected  return  of  the  gold  and  silver  to 
London,  they  had  waited  again,  had  followed  the  plates  back 
to  Browndown,  and  had  effected  their  object — thanks  to  the 
lonely  situation  of  the  house,  and  to  the  murderous  blow 
which  had  stretched  Oscar  insensible  on  the  floor. 

More  than  one  witness  had  met  them  on  the  road  back  to 
Brighton,  with  the  packing-case  in  the  chaise.  But  when 
they  returned  to  the  livery  stables  from  which  they  had 
hired  the  vehicle,  the  case  was  not  to  be  seen.  Accomplices 
in  Brighton  had,  in  all  probability,  assisted  them  in  getting 
rid  of  it,  and  in  shifting  the  plates  into  ordinary  articles  of 
luggage  which  would  attract  no  special  attention  at  the  rail- 
way station.  This  was  the  explanation  given  by  the  police. 
Right  or  wrong,  the  one  fact  remains  that  the  villains  were 
not  caught,  and  that  the  assault  and  robbery  at  Oscar's 
house  may  be  added  to  the  long  list  of  crimes  cleverly 
enough  committed  to  defy  the  vengeance  of  the  law. 

For  ourselves,  we  all  agreed — led  by  Lucilla — to  indulge 
in  no  useless  lamentations,  and  to  be  grateful  that  Oscar  had 
escaped  without  serious  injury.  The  mischief  was  done; 
and  there  was  an  end  of  it. 

In  this  philosophical  spirit  we  looked  at  the  affair  while 
our  invalid  was  recovering.  We  all  plumed  ourselves  on 
our  excellent  good  sense  —  and  (ah,  poor  stupid  human 
wretches !)  we  were  all  fatally  wrong.  So  far  from  the  mis- 
chief being  at  an  end,  the  mischief  had  only  begun.  The 
true  results  of  the  robbery  at  Browndown  were  yet  to  show 
themselves,  and  were  yet  to  be  felt  in  the  strangest  and  the 
saddest  way  by  every  member  of  the  little  circle  assembled 
at  Dimchurch. 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTEENTH. 

THE  RESULT  OF  THE  ROBBERY. 

BETWEEN  five  and  six  weeks  passed.     Oscar  was  out  of 
his  bedroom,  and  was  well  of  his  wound. 

During   this  lapse  of  time  Lucilla   steadily  pursued  that 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  101 

process  of  her  own  of  curing  him  which  was  to  end  in  mar- 
rying him.  Never  had  I  seen  such  nursing  before — never 
do  I  expect  to  see  sucli  nursing  again.  From  morning  to 
night  she  interested  him,  and  kept  him  in  good  spirits.  The 
charming  creature  actually  made  her  blindness  a  means  of 
lightening  the  weary  hours  of  the  man  she  loved. 

Sometimes  she  would  sit  before  Oscar's  looking-glass,  and 
imitate  all  the  innumerable  tricks,  artifices,  and  vanities  of  a 
coquette  arraying  herself  for  conquest,  with  such  wonderful 
truth  and  humor  of  mimicry  that  you  would  have  sworn  she 
possessed  the  use  of  her  eyes.  Sometimes  she  would  show 
him  her  extraordinary  power  of  calculating,  by  the  sound  of 
a  person's  voice,  the  exact  position  which  that  person  occu- 
pied toward  her  in  a  room.  Selecting  me  as  the  victim,  she 
would  first  provide  herself  with  one  of  the  nosegays  always 
placed  by  her  own  hands  at  Oscar's  bedside,  and  would  then 
tell  me  to  take  up  my  position  noiselessly  in  any  part  of  the 
room  that  I  pleased,  and  to  say  "  Lucilla."  The  instant  the 
words  were  out  of  my  mouth  the  nosegay  flew  from  her  hand 
and  hit  me  on  the  face.  She  never  once  missed  her  aim  on 
any  one  of  the  occasions  when  this  experiment  was  tried, 
and  she  never  once  flagged  in  her  childish  enjoyment  of  the 
exhibition  of  her  own  skill. 

Nobody  was  allowed  to  pour  out  Oscar's  medicine  but 
herself.  She  knew  when  the  spoon  into  which  it  was  to  be 
measured  was  full  by  the  sound  which  the  liquid  made  in 
falling  into  it.  When  he  was  able  to  sit  up  in  his  bed,  and 
when  she  was  standing  by  the  pillow-side,  she  could  tell  him 
how  near  his  head  was  to  hers  by  the  change  which  he  pro- 
duced, when  lie  bent  forward  or  when  he  drew  back,  in  the 
action  of  the  air  on  her  face.  In  the  same  way  she  knew  as 
well  as  he  knew  when  the  sun  was  out,  and  when  it  was  be- 
hind a  cloud,  judging  by  the  differing  effect  of  the  air  at  such 
times  on  her  forehead  and  on  her  cheeks. 

All  the  litter  of  little  objects  accumulating  in  a  sick-room 
she  kept  in  perfect  order  on  a  system  of  her  own.  She  de- 
lighted in  putting  the  room  tidy  late  in  the  evening,  when 
we  helpless  people  who  could  see  were  beginning  to  think 
of  lighting  the  candles.  The  time  when  we  could  just  dis- 
cern her  flitting  to  and  fro  in  the  dusk  in  her  bright  summer 
dress — now  visible  as  she  passed  the  window,  now  lost  in  the 


102  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

shadows  at  the  end  of  the  room — was  the  time  when  she 
began  to  clear  the  tables  of  the  things  that  had  been  wanted 
in  the  day,  and  to  replace  them-  by  the  things  which  would 
be  wanted  at  night.  We  were  only  allowed  to  light  the 
candles  when  they  showed  us  the  room  magically  put  in 
order  during  the  darkness,  as  if  the  fairies  had  done  it.  She 
laughed  scornfully  at  our  surprise,  and  said  she  sincerely 
pitied  the  poor  useless  people  who  could  only  see. 

The  same  pleasure  which  she  had  in  arranging  the  room  in 
the  dark  she  also  felt  in  wandering  all  over  the  house  in  the 
dark,  and  in  making  herself  thoroughly  acquainted  with  every 
inch  of  it  from  top  to  bottom.  As  soon  as  Oscar  was  well 
enough  to  go  down  stairs,  she  insisted  on  leading  him. 

"  You  have  been  so  long  up  in  your  bedroom,"  she  said, 
"  that  you  must  have  forgotten  the  rest  of  the  house.  Take 
my  arm,  and  come  along.  Now  we  are  out  in  the  passage. 
Mind !  there  is  a  step  down  just  at  this  place.  And  now  a 
step  up  again.  Here  is  a  sharp  corner  to  turn  at  the  top  of 
the  staircase.  And  there  is  a  rod  out  of  the  stair-carpet,  and 
an  awkward  fold  in  it  that  might  throw  you  down."  So 
she  took  him  into  his  own  drawing-room,  as  if  it  was  lie  that 
was  blind  and  she  who  had  the  use  of  her  eyes.  Who  could 
resist  such  a  nurse  as  this?  Is  it  wonderful  that  I  heard  a 
sound  suspiciously  like  the  sound  of  a  kiss,  on  that  first  day 
of  convalescence,  when  I  happened  for  a  moment  to  be  out 
of  the  room?  I  strongly  suspected  her  of  leading  the  way 
in  that  also.  She  was  so  wonderfully  composed  when  I  came 
back,  and  he  was  so  wonderfully  flurried. 

In  a  week  from  his  convalescence  Lncilla  completed  the 
cure  of  the  patient.  In  other  words,  she  received  from  Oscar 
an  offer  of  marriage.  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  in  my 
mind  that  he  required  assistance  in  bringing  this  delicate 
matter  to  a  climax — and  that  Lncilla  helped  him. 

I  may  be  right  or  I  may  be  wrong  about  this.  But  I  can 
at  least  certify  that  Lncilla  was  in  such  mad  high  spirits 
when  she  told  me  the  news,  out  in  the  garden,  on  a  lovely 
autumn  morning,  that  she  actually  danced  for  joy;  and, more 
improper  still,  she  made  me,  at  my  discreet  time  of  life,  dance 
too.  She  took  me  round  the  waist,  and  we  waltzed  on  the 
grass,  Mrs.  Finch  standing  by  in  the  condemned  blue  merino 
jacket  (with  the  baby  in  one;  linn  1  and  the  novel  in  the 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  103 

other),  ana  warning  us  both  that  if  we  lost  half  an  hour  out 
of  our  day  in  whirling  each  other  round  the  lawn,  we  should 
never  sueceed  in  picking  it  up  again  in  that  house.  We 
went  on  whirling,  for  all  that,  until  we  were  both  out  of 
breath.  Nothing  short  of  downright  exhaustion  could  tame 
Lucilla.  As  for  me,  I  am,  I  sincerely  believe,  the  rashest 
person  of  my  age  now  in  existence.  (What  is  my  age?  Ah! 
I  am  always  discreet  about  that ;  it  is  the  one  exception.) 
Set  down  my  rashness  to  my  French  nationality,  my  easy 
conscience,  and  my  excellent  stomach — and  let  us  go  on  with 
our  story. 

There  was  a  private  interview  at  Browndown,  later  on 
that  day,  between  Oscar  and  Reverend  Finch. 

Of  what  passed  on  this  occasion  I  was  not  informed.  The 
rector  came  back  among  us,  with  his  head  high  in  the  air, 
strutting  magnificently  on  his  wizen  little  legs.  He  em- 
braced his  daughter  in  pathetic  silence,  and  gave  me  his 
hand  with  a  serene  smile  of  condescension  worthy  of  the 
greatest  humbug  (say  Louis  the  Fourteenth)  that  ever  sat 
on  a  throne.  When  he  got  the  better  of  his  paternal  emo- 
tion and  began  to  speak,  his  voice  was  so  big  that  I  really 
thought  it  must  have  burst  him.  The  vapor  of  words  in 
which  he  enveloped  himself  (condensed  on  paper)  amounted 
to  these  two  statements.  First,  that  he  hailed  in  Oscar — 
not  having,  I  suppose,  children  enough  already  of  his  own — 
the  advent  of  another  son.  Secondly,  that  he  saw  the  finger 
of  Providence  in  every  thing  that  had  happened.  Alas  for 
me!  my  irreverent  French  nature  saw  nothing  but  the  finger 
of  Finch — in  Oscar's  pocket. 

The  wedding-day  was  not  then  actually  fixed.  It  was 
only  generally  arranged  that  the  marriage  should  take  place 
in  about  six  weeks. 

This  interval  was  intended  to  serve  a  double  purpose.  It 
was  to  give  the  lawyers  time  to  prepare  the  marriage-set- 
tlements, and  to  give  Oscar  time  to  completely  recover 
his  health.  Some  anxiety  was  felt  by  all  of  us  on  this 
latter  subject.  His  wound  was  well,  and  his  mind  was  itself 
again.  But  still  there  was  something  wrong  with  him,  for 
all  that. 

Those  curious  contradictions  in  his  character  which  I  have 
already  mentioned  showed  themselves  more  strangely  than 


104  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

ever.  The  man  who  had  found  the  courage  (when  his  blood 
was  up)  to  measure  himself,  alone  and  unarmed,  against  two 
robbers,  was  now  unable  to  enter  the  room  in  which  the 
struggle  had  taken  place  without  trembling  from  head  to 
foot.  He  who  had  laughed  at  me  when  1  begged  him  not 
to  sleep  in  the  house  by  himself,  now  had  two  men  (a  gar- 
dener and  an  in-door  servant)  domiciled  at  Browndown  to 
protect  him,  and  felt  no  sense  of  security  even  in  that.  He 
was  constantly  dreaming  that  the  ruffian  with  the  "  life-pre- 
server" was  attacking  him  again,  or  that  he  was  lying  bleed- 
ing on  the  floor,  and  coaxing  Jicks  to  venture  within  reach 
of  his  hand.  If  any  of  us  hinted  at  his  occupying  himself 
once  more  with  his  favorite  art,  he  stopped  his  ears  and  en- 
treated us  not  to  renew  his  horrible  associations  with  the 
past.  He  could  not  even  look  at  his  box  of  chasing  tools. 
The  doctor — summoned  to  say  what  was  the  matter  with 
him — told  us  that  his  nervous  system  had  been  shaken,  and 
frankly  acknowledged  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but 
to  wait  until  time  set  it  right  again. 

I  am  afraid  I  must  confess  that  I  myself  took  no  very  in- 
dulgent view  of  the  patient's  case. 

It  was  his  duty  to  exert  himself,  as  I  thought.  He  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  too  indolent  to  make  a  proper  effort  to 
better  his  own  condition.  Lucilla  and  I  had  more  than  one 
animated  discussion  about  him.  On  a  certain  evening  when 
we  Avere  at  the  piano  gossiping,  and  playing  in  the  intervals, 
she  was  downright  angry  with  me  for  not  sympathizing  with 
her  darling  as  unreservedly  as  she  did.  "I  have  noticed  one 
thing,  Madame  Pratolungo,"  she  said  to  me,  with  a  flushed 
face  and  a  heightened  tone:  "you  have  never  done  Oscar 
justice  from  the  first." 

(Mark  those  trifling  words.  The  time  is  coming  when  you 
will  hear  of  them  again.) 

The  preparations  for  the  contemplated  marriage  went  on. 
The  lawyers  produced  their  sketch  of  the  settlement,  and 
Oscar  wrote  (to  an  address  in  New  York  given  to  him  by 
Nugent)  to  tell  his  brother  of  the  approaching  change  in  his 
life,  and  of  the  circumstances  which  had  brought  it  about. 

The  marriage-settlement  was  not  shown  to  me,  but  from 
certain  signs  and  tokens  I  guessed  that  Oscar's  perfect  dis- 
interestedness on  the  question  of  money  had  been  turned  to 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  105 

profitable  account  by  Oscar's  future  father-in-law.  Reverend 
Finch  was  reported  to  have  shed  tears  when  he  first  read 
the  document.  And  Lucilla  came  out  of  the  study,  after  an 
interview  with  her  father,  more  thoroughly  and  vehemently 
indignant  than  I  had  ever  seen  her  yet.  "Don't  ask  what 
is  the  matter!"  she  said  to  me  between  her  teeth.  "I  am 
ashamed  to  tell  you."  When  Oscar  came  in,  a  little  later, 
she  fell  on  her  knees — literally  fell  on  her  knees — before  him. 
Some  overmastering  agitation  was  in  possession  of  her  whole 
being,  which  made  her,  for  the  moment,  reckless  of  what  she 
said  or  did.  "I  worship  you!"  she  burst  out,  hysterically, 
kissing  his  hand.  "You  are  the  noblest  of  living  men.  I 
can  never,  never  be  worthy  of  you  !"  The  interpretation  of 
these  high-flown  sayings  and  doings  was,  to  my  mind,  briefly 
this:  Oscar's  money  in  the  rector's  pocket,  and  the  rector's 
daughter  used  as  thy  means. 

The  interval  expired  ;  the  weeks  succeeded  each  other. 
All  had  been  long  since  ready  for  the  marriage,  and  still  the 
marriage  did  not  take  place. 

Far  from  becoming  himself  again,  with  time  to  help  him, 
as  the  doctor  had  foretold,  Oscar  steadily  grew  worse.  All 
the  nervous  symptoms  (to  use  the  medical  phrase)  which  I 
have  already  described  strengthened  instead  of  loosening 
their  hold  on  him.  lie  grew  thinner  and  thinner,  and  paler 
and  paler.  Early  in  tin)  month  of  November  we  sent  for  the 
doctor  again.  The  question  to  be  put  to  him  this  time  was 
the  question  (suggested  by  Lucilla)  of  trying  as  a  last  remedy 
change  of  air. 

Something — I  forget  what — delayed  the  arrival  of  our 
medical  man.  Oscar  had  given  up  all  idea  of  seeing  him 
that  day,  and  had  come  to  us  at  the  rectory,  when  the  doctor 
drove  into  Dimchurch.  He  was  stopped  before  he  went  on 
to  Browndown,  and  he  and  his  patient  saw  each  other  alone 
in  Lucilla's  sitting-room. 

They  were  a  long  time  together.  Lucilla,  waiting  with 
me  in  my  bed-chamber,  grew  impatient.  She  begged  me  to 
knock  at  the  sitting-room  door,  and  inquire  when  she  might 
be  permitted  to  assist  at  the  consultation. 

I  found  doctor  and  patient  standing  together  at  the  win- 
dow, talking  quietly.  Evidently  nothing  had  passed  to  ex- 
cite either  of  them  in  the  smallest  degree.  Oscar  looked  a 

E2 


106  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

little  pale  and  weary,  but  he,  like  his  medical  adviser,  was 
perfectly  composed. 

"There  is  a  young  lady  in  the  next  room,"  I  said,  "who  is 
getting  anxious  to  hear  what  your  consultation  has  ended 
in." 

The  doctor  looked  at  Oscar  and  smiled. 

"There  is  really  nothing  to  tell  Miss  Finch,"  he  said.  "Mr. 
Dubourg  and  I  have  gone  all  over  the  case  again,  and  noth- 
ing new  has  come  of  it.  His  nervous  system  has  not  recov- 
ered its  balance  so  soon  as  I  expected.  I  am  sorry,  but  I  am 
not  in  the  least  alarmed.  At  his  age  things  are  sure  to  come 
right  in  the  end.  He  must  be  patient,  and  the  young  lady 
must  be  patient.  I  can  say  no  more." 

"Do  you  see  any  objection  to  his  trying  change  of  air?"  I 
inquired. 

"  None  whatever.  Let  him  go  where  he  likes,  and  amuse 
himself  as  he  likes.  You  are  all  of  you  a  little  disposed  to 
take  Mr.  Dubourg's  case  too  seriously.  Except  the  nervous 
derangement  (unpleasant  enough  in  itself,  I  grant),  there  is 
really  nothing  the  matter  with  him.  He  has  not  a  trace  of 
organic  disease  any  where.  The  pulse,"  continued  the  doc- 
tor, laying  his  fingers  lightly  on  Oscar's  wrist,  "is  perfectly 
satisfactory.  I  never  felt  a  quieter  pulse  in  my  life." 

As  the  words  passed  his  lips  a  frightful  contortion  fastened 
itself  on  Oscar's  face. 

His  eyes  turned  up  hideously. 

From  head  to  foot  his  whole  body  was  wrenched  round,  as 
if  giant  hands  had  twisted  it,  toward  the  right. 

Before  I  could  speak  he  was  in  convulsions  on  the  floor  at 
his  doctor's  feet. 

"Good  God  !  what  is  this?"  I  cried  out. 

The  doctor  loosened  his  cravat,  and  moved  away  the  fur- 
niture that  was  near  him.  That  done,  he  waited,  looking  at 
the  writhing  figure  on  the  floor. 

"Can  you  do  nothing  more?"  I  asked. 

He  shook  his  head  gravely.     "  Nothing  more." 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  An  epileptic  fit." 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  107 


CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTEENTH. 

WHAT   DOES   THE    DOCTOR    SAY? 

BEFORE  another  word  had  been  exchanged  between  us  Lu- 
cilla  entered  the  room.  We  looked  at  each  other.  If  we 
could  have  spoken  at  that  moment,  I  believe  we  should  both 
have  said,  "Thank  God,  she  is  blind!" 

"Have  you  all  forgotten  me?"  she  asked.  "Oscar!  where 
are  you?  What  does  the  doctor  say?" 

She  advanced  into  the  room.  In  a  moment  more  she  would 
have  stumbled  against  the  prostrate  man  still  writhing  on 
the  floor.  I  laid  my  hand  on  her  arm  and  stopped  her. 

She  suddenly  caught  my  hand  in  hers.  "Why  did  you 
tremble,"  she  asked,  "when  you  took  me  by  the  arm?  Why 
are  you  trembling  now  ?"  Her  delicate  sense  of  touch  was 
not  to  be  deceived.  I  vainly  denied  that  any  thing  had  hap- 
pened: my  hand  had  betrayed  me.  "There  is  something 
wrong!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oscar  has  not  answered  me." 

The  doctor  came  to  my  assistance. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  alarmed  about,"  he  said.  "Mr. 
Dubourg  is  not  very  well  to-day." 

She  turned  on  the  doctor  with  a  sudden  burst  of  anger. 

"You  are  deceiving  me!"  she  cried.  "Something  serious 
has  happened  to  him.  The  truth  !  tell  me  the  truth !  Oh, 
it's  shameful,  it's  heartless  of  both  of  you,  to  deceive  a 
wretched  blind  creature  like  me!" 

The  doctor  still  hesitated.     I  told  her  the  truth. 

"Where  is  he?''  she  asked,  seizing  me  by  the  two  shoul- 
ders, and  shaking  me  in  the  violence  of  her  agitation. 

I  entreated  her  to  wait  a  little;  I  tried  to  place  her  in  a 
chair.  She  pushed  me  contemptuously  away, and  went  down 
on  the  floor  on  her  hands  and  knees.  "  I  shall  find  him,''  she 
muttered;  "I  shall  find  him  in  spite  of  you  !"  She  began  to 
crawl  over  the  floor,  feeling  the  empty  space  before  her  with 
her  hand.  It  was  horrible.  I  followed  her,  and  raised  her 
again  by  main  force. 

"Don't  struggle  with  hor,"  said  the  doctor.  "Let  her 
come  here.  He  is  quiet  now." 


103  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

I  looked  at  Oscar.  The  worst  of  it  was  over.  He  was  ex- 
hausted— he  was  quite  still  now.  The  doctor's  voice  guided 
her  to  the  place.  She  sat  down  by  Oscar  on  the  floor,  and 
laid  his  head  on  her  lap.  The  moment  she  touched  him  the 
same  effect  was  produced  on  her  which  would  be  produced 
(if  our  eyes  were  bandaged)  on  you  or  me  when  the  bandage 
was  taken  off.  An  instant  sense  of  relief  diffused  itself 
through  her  whole  being.  She  became  her  gentler  and  sweet- 
er self  again.  "I  am  sorry  I  lost  my  temper,"  she  said,  with 
the  simplicity  of  a  child.  "But  you  don't  know  how  hard  it 
is  to  be  deceived  when  you  are  blind."  She  stooped  as  she 
said  those  words,  and  passed  her  handkerchief  lightly  over  his 
forehead.  "Doctor,"  she  asked,  "  will  this  happen  again?" 

"I  hope  not." 

"Are  you  sure  not?" 

"I  can't  say  that." 

"What  has  brought  it  on?" 

"  I  am  afraid  the  blow  he  received  on  the  head  has  brought 
it  on." 

She  asked  no  more  questions :  her  eager  face  passed  sud- 
denly into  a  state  of  repose.  Something  seemed  to  have  come 
into  her  mind — after  the  doctor's  answer  to  her  last  question 
— which  absorbed  her  in  herself.  When  Oscar  recovered  his 
consciousness  she  left  it  to  me  to  answer  the  first  natural 
questions  which  he  put.  When  he  personally  addressed  her 
she  spoke  to  him  kindly  but  briefly.  Something  in  her  at 
that  moment  seemed  to  keep  her  apart  even  from  him.  When 
the  doctor  proposed  taking  him  back  to  Browndown  she  did 
not  insist,  as  I  had  anticipated,  on  going  with  them.  She 
took  leave  of  him  tenderly — but  still  she  let  him  go.  While 
he  yet  lingered  near  the  door,  looking  back  at  her,  she  moved 
away  slowly  to  the  further  end  of  the  room;  self-withdrawn 
into  her  own  dark  world — shut  up  in  her  thoughts  from  him 
and  from  us. 

The  doctor  tried  to  rouse  her. 

"You  must  not  think  too  seriously  of  this,"  he  snid,  follow- 
ing her  to  the  window  at  which  she  stood,  and  dropping  his 
voice  so  that  Oscar  could  not  hear  him.  "He  has  himself 
told  you  that  he  feels  lighter  and  better  than  he  felt  before 
the  fit.  It  has  relieved  instead  of  injuring  him.  There  is  no 
danger.  I  assure  you,  on  my  honor,  there  is  nothing  to  it-ar." 


POOR    MISS    FI.MH.  100 

"Can  you  assure  me,  on  your  honor,  of  one  other  thinjr," 
she  asked,  lowering  her  voice  on  l:er  side:  "can  you  honestly 
tell  me  that  this  is  not  the  first  of  other  fits  that  are  to 
come  ?" 

The  doctor  parried  the  question. 

"We  will  have  another  medical  opinion,"  he  answered, 
"before  we  decide.  The  next  time  I  go  to  see  him  a  phy- 
sician from  Brighton  shall  go  with  me." 

Oscar,  who  had  thus  far  waited,  wondering  at  the  change 
in  her,  now  opened  the  door.  The  doctor  returned  to  him. 
They  left  us. 

She  sat  down  on  the  window-seat,  with  her  elbows  on  her 
knees  and  her  hands  grasping  her  forehead.  A  long  moaning 
cry  burst  from  her.  She  said  to  herself  bitterly  the  one 
word— "Farewell !" 

I  approached  her,  feeling  the  necessity  of  reminding  her 
that  I  was  in  the  room. 

"Farewell  to  what?"  I  asked,  taking  my  place  by  her  side. 

"To  his  happiness  and  to  mine,"  she  answered,  without  lift- 
ing her  head  from  her  hands.  "The  dark  days  are  coming 
for  Oscar  and  for  me." 

"Why  should  you  think  that?  You  heard  what  the  doc- 
tor said." 

"  The  doctor  doesn't  know  what  T  know." 

"  What  you  know  ?" 

She  paused  before  she  answered  me.  "  Do  you  believe  in 
Fate?"  she  said,  suddenly  breaking  the  silence. 

"I  believe  in  nothing  which  encourages  people  to  despair 
of  themselves,"  I  replied. 

She  went  on  without  heeding  me. 

"What  caused  the  tit  which  seized  him  in  this  room?  The 
blow  that  struck  him  on  the  head.  Howr  did  he  receive  the 
blow?  In  trying  to  defend  what  was  his  and  what  was  mine. 
What  had  he  been  doing  on  the  day  when  the  thieves  en- 
tered the  house?  He  had  been  working  on  the  casket  which 
was  meant  for  me.  Do  you  see  those  events  linked  together 
in  one  chain?  I  believe  the  fit  will  be  followed  by  some  next 
event  springing  out  of  it.  Something  else  is  coming  to  dark- 
en his  life  and  to  darken  mine.  There  is  no  wedding-day  near 
for  us.  The  obstacles  are  rising  in  front  of  him  and  in  front 
of  me.  The  next  misfortune  is  very  near  us.  You  will  see! 


110  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

you  will  see  !"  She  shivered  as  she  said  those  words ;  and, 
shrinking  away  from  me,  huddled  herself  up  in  a  corner  of 
the  window-seat. 

It  was  useless  to  dispute  with  her,  and  worse  than  useless 
to  sit  there  and  encourage  her  to  say  more.  I  got  up  on  my 
leet. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  believe  in,"  I  said,  cheerfully.  "I 
believe  in  the  breeze  on  the  hills.  Come  for  a  walk  !" 

She  shrank  closer  into  her  corner  and  shook  her  head. 

"Let  me  be !"  she  broke  out,  impatiently.  "Leave  me  by 
myself!"  She  rose,  repenting  the  words  the  moment  they 
were  uttered  ;  she  put  her  arm  round  my  neck  and  kissed 
me.  "I  didn't  mean  to  speak  so  harshly,"  said  the  gentle, 
affectionate  creature.  "  Sister  !  my  heart  is  heavy.  My  life 
to  come  never  looked  so  dark  to  my  blind  eyes  as  it  looks 
now."  A  tear  dropped  from  those  poor  sightless  eyes  on  my 
cheek.  She  turned  her  head  aside  abruptly.  "Forgive  me," 
she  murmured,  "and  let  me  go."  Before  I  could  answer  she 
turned  away  to  hide  herself  in  her  room.  The  sweet  girl ! 
How  you  would  have  pitied  her — how  you  would  have  loved 
her ! 

I  went  out  alone  for  my  walk.  She  had  not  infected  me 
with  her  superstitious  forebodings  of  ill  things  to  come.  But 
there  was  one  sad  word  that  she  had  said  in  which  I  could 
not  but  agree.  After  what  I  had  witnessed  in  that  room,  the 
wedding-day  did,  indeed,  look  further  off  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTEENTH. 

FAMILY     TROUBLES. 

IN  four  or  five  days  more  Liicilla's  melancholy  doubts 
about  Oscar  were  confirmed.  He  was  attacked  by  a  second 
fit. 

The  promised  consultation  with  the  physician  from  Bright- 
on took  place.  Our  new  doctor  did  not  encourage  us  to  hope. 
The  second  fit  following  so  close  on  the  first  was,  in  his  opin- 
ion, a  bad  sign.  He  gave  general  directions  for  the  treatment 
of  Oscar,  and  left  him  to  decide  for  himself  whether  he  would 
or  would  not  try  change  of  scene.  No  change,  the  physician 
appeared  to  think,  would  exert  any  immediate  influence  on 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  Ill 

the  recurrence  of  the  epileptic  attacks.  The  patient's  general 
health  might  be  benefited,  and  that  was  all.  As  for  the 
question  of  the  marriage,  he  declared  without  hesitation  that 
we  must  for  the  present  dismiss  all  consideration  of  it  from 
our  minds. 

Lucilla  received  the  account  of  what  passed  at  the  visit 
of  the  doctors  with  a  stubborn  resignation  which  it  distress- 
ed me  to  see.  "Remember  what  I  told  you  when  the  first 
attack  seized  him,"  she  said.  "Our  summer-time  is  ended; 
our  winter  is  come." 

Her  manner,  while  she  spoke,  was  the  manner  of  a  person 
who  is  waiting  without  hope — who  feels  deliberately  that 
calamity  is  near.  She  only  roused  herself  when  Oscar  came 
in.  He  was,  naturally  enough,  in  miserable  spirits  under  the 
sudden  alteration  in  all  his  prospects.  Lucilla  did  her  best 
to  cheer  him,  and  succeeded.  On  my  side,  I  tried  vainly  to 
persuade  him  to  leave  Browndown,  and  amuse  himself  in 
some  gayer  place.  He  shrank  from  new  faces  and  new 
scenes.  Between  these  two  unelastic  young  people,  I  felt 
even  my  native  good  spirits  beginning  to  sink.  If  we  had 
been  all  three  down  in  the  bottom  of  a  dry  well  in  a  wilder- 
ness, we  could  hardly  have  surveyed  a  more  dismal  prospect 
than  the  prospect  we  were  contemplating  now.  By  good 
luck  Oscar,  like  Lucilla,  was  passionately  fond  of  music. 
We  turned  to  the  piano  as  our  best  resource  in  those  days 
of  our  adversity.  Lucilla  and  I  took  it  in  turns  to  play,  and 
Oscar  listened.  I  have  to  report  that  we  got  through  a 
great  deal  of  music.  I  have  also  to  acknowledge  that  we 
were  very  dull. 

As  for  Reverend  Finch,  he  talked  his  way  through  his 
share  of  the  troubles  that  were  trying  us  now  at  the  full 
compass  of  his  voice. 

If  you  had  heard  the  little  priest  in  those  days,  you  would 
have  supposed  that  nobody  could  feel  our  domestic  misfor- 
tunes as  he  felt  them,  and  grieve  over  them  as  he  grieved. 
He  was  a  sight  to  see  on  the  day  of  the  medical  consulta- 
tion, strutting  up  and  down  his  wife's  sitting-room,  and  ha- 
ranguing his  audience  —  composed  of  his  wife  and  myself. 
Mrs.  Finch  sat  in  one  corner,  with  the  baby  and  tile  novel, 
and  the  petticoat  and  the  shawl.  I  occupied  the  other  cor- 


112  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

ner,  summoned  to  "consult  with  the  rector."  In  plain  'words, 
summoned  to  hear  Mr.  Finch  declare  that  lie  was  the  person 
principally  overshadowed  by  the  cloud  which  hung  over  the 
household. 

"I  despair,  Madame  Pratolungo — I  assure  you,  I  despair 
of  conveying  any  idea  of  how  I  feel  under  this  most  mel- 
ancholy state  of  things.  You  have  been  very  good ;  you 
have  shown  the  sympathy  of  a  true  friend.  But  you  can 
not  possibly  understand  how  this  blow  has  fallen  on  Me. 
I  am  crushed.  Madame  Pratolungo"  (he  appealed  to  me  in 
my  corner),  " Mrs.  Finch''  (he  appealed  to  his  wife,  in  her 
corner), "  I  am  crushed.  There  is  no  other  word  to  express 
it  but  the  word  I  have  used.  Crushed."  He  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  He  looked  expectantly  at  me — he  look- 
ed expectantly  at  his  wife.  His  face  and  manner  said,  plain- 
ly, "If  both  these  women  faint,  I  shall  consider  it  a  natural 
and  becoming  proceeding  on  their  parts,  after  what  I  have 
just  told  them."  I  Availed  for  the  lead  of  the  lady  of  the 
house.  Mrs.  Finch  did  not  roll  prostrate,  with  the  baby  and 
the  novel,  on  the  floor.  Thus  encouraged,  I  presumed  to 
keep  my  seat.  The  rector  still  waited  for  us.  I  looked  as 
miserable  as  I  could.  Mrs.  Finch  cast  her  eyes  up  reveren- 
tially at  her  husband,  as  if  she  thought  him  the  noblest  of 
created  beings,  and  silently  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 
Mr.  Finch  was  satisfied;  Mr.  Finch  went  on:  "My  health 
has  suffered — I  assure  you,  Madame  Pratolungo,  MY  health 
has  suffered.  Since  this  sad  occurrence  my  stomach  has 
given  way.  My  balance  is  lost ;  my  usual  regularity  is 
gone.  I  am  subject — entirely  through  this  miserable  busi- 
ness— to  fits  of  morbid  appetite.  I  want  things  at  wrong 
times — breakfast  in  the  middle  of  the  night;  dinner  at  four 
in  the  morning.  I  want  something  now."  Mr.  Finch  stop- 
ped, horror-struck  at  his  condition,  pondering  with  his  eye- 
brows fiercely  knit,  and  his  hand  pressed  convulsively  on 
the  lower  buttons  of  his  rusty  black  waistcoat.  Mrs.  Finch's 
watery  blue  eyes  looked  across  the  room  at  rne  in  a  moist 
melancholy  of  conjugal  distress.  The  rector,  suddenly  en- 
lightened after  his  consultation  with  his  stomach,  strutted  to 
the  door,  flung  it  wide  open,  and  called  down  the  kitchen 
stairs  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  "Poach  me  an  egg!"  He 
came  back  into  the  room,  held  another  consultation,  keeping 


POOR    MISS  -FINCH.  118 

his  eyes  severely  fixed  on  me,  strutted  back  in  a  furious  hur- 
ry to  the  door,  and  bellowed  a  counter-order  down  the  kitch- 
en stairs, "  No  egg  !  Do  me  a  red  herring  !"  He  came  back 
for  the  second  time,  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  hand  laid 
distractedly  on  his  head.  He  appealed  alternately  to  Mrs. 
Finch  and  to  me,  "  See  for  yourselves.  Mrs.  Finch  !  Madame 
Pratolungo !  see  for  yourselves  what  a  state  I  am  in.  It's 
simply  pitiable.  I  hesitate  about  the  most  trifling  things. 
First  I  think  I  want  a  poached  egg;  then  I  think  I  want  a 
red  herring:  now  I  don't  know  what  I  want.  Upon  my 
word  of  honor  as  a  clergyman  and  a  gentleman,  I  don't  know 
what  I  want.  Morbid  appetite  all  day;  morbid  wakefulness 
all  night:  what  a  condition!  I  can't  rest.  I  disturb  my 
wife  at  night.  Mrs.  Finch !  I  disturb  you  at  night.  How 
many  times — since  this  misfortune  fell  upon  us — do  I  turn  in 
bed  before  I  fall  off  to  sleep  ?  Eight  times  ?  Are  you  cer- 
tain of  it?  Don't  exaggerate!  Are  you  certain  you  count- 
ed ?  Very  well :  good  creature !  I  never  remember — I  as- 
sure you,  Madame  Pratolungo,  I  never  remember  such  a 
complete  upset  as  this  before.  The  nearest  approach  to  it 
was  some  years  since  —  at  my  "wife's  last  confinement  but 
four.  Mrs.  Finch  !  was  it  at  your  last  confinement  but  four? 
or  your  last  but  five?  Your  last  but  four?  Are  you  sure? 
Are  you  certain  you  are  not  misleading  our  friend  here? 
Very  well:  good  creature!  Pecuniary  difficulties,  Madame 
Pratolungo,  were  at  the  bottom  of  it  on  that  last  occasion. 
I  got  over  the  pecuniary  difficulties.  How  am  I  to  get  over 
this?  My  plans  for  Oscar  and  Lucilla  were  completely  ar- 
ranged. My  relations  with  my  wedded  children  were  pleas- 
antly laid  out.  I  saw  my  own  future;  I  saw  the  future  of 
my  family.  What  do  I  see. now?  All,  so  to  speak,  annihi- 
lated at  a  blow.  Inscrutable  Providence  !"  He  paused,  and 
lifted  his  eyes  and  hands  devotionally  to  the  ceiling.  The 
cook  appeared  with  the  red  herring.  "Inscrutable  Provi- 
dence," proceeded  Mr.  Finch,  a  tone  lower.  "Eat  it,  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Finch,  "while  it's  hot."  The  rector  paused  again. 
His  unresting  tongue  urged  him  to  proceed;  his  undisci- 
plined stomach  clamored  for  the  herring.  The  cook  uncov- 
ered the  dish.  Mr.  Finch's  nose  instantly  sided  with  Mr. 
Finch's  stomach.  He  stopped  at  "Inscrutable  Providence," 
and  peppered  his  herring. 


114  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

Having  reported  how  the  vector  spoke  in  the  presence  of 
the  disaster  which  had  fallen  on  the  family,  I  have  only  to 
complete  the  picture  by  stating  next  what  he  did.  He  bor- 
rowed two  hundred  pounds  of  Oscar,  and  left  off  command- 
ing red  herrings  in  the  day  and  disturbing  Mrs.  Finch  at 
night  immediately  afterward. 

The  dull  autumn  days  ended,  and  the  long  nights  of  win- 
ter began. 

No  change  for  the  better  appeared  in  our  prospects.  The 
doctors  did  their  best  for  Oscar — without  avail.  The  horri- 
ble fits  came  back,  again  and  again.  Day  after  day  our  dull 
lives  went  monotonously  on.  I  almost  began  now  to  believe, 
with  Lucilla,  that  a  crisis  of  some  sort  must  be  at  hand. 
"  This  can  not  last,"  I  used  to  say  to  myself— generally  when 
I  was  very  hungry.  "Something  will  happen  before  the  year 
comes  to  its  end." 

The  month  of  December  began;  and  something  happened 
at  last.  The  family  troubles  at  the  rectory  were  matched  by 
family  troubles  of  my  own.  A  letter  arrived  for  me  from 
one  of  my  younger  sisters  at  Paris.  It  contained  alarming 
news  of  a  person  very  dear  to  me — already  mentioned  in  the 
first  of  these  pages  as  my  good  Papa. 

Was  the  venerable  author  of  my  being  dangerously  ill  of 
a  mortal  disease?  Alas!  he  was  not  exactly  that, but  the 
next  worst  thing  to  it.  He  was  dangerously  in  love  with  a 
disreputable  young  woman.  At  what  age?  At  the  age  of 
seventy-five!  What  can  we  say  of  my  surviving  parent? 
We  can  only  say,  This  is  a  vigorous  nature;  Papa  has  an 
evergreen  heart. 

I  am  grieved  to  trouble  you  with  my  family  concerns. 
But  they  mix  themselves  up  intimately,  as  you  will  see  in 
due  time,  with  the  concerns  of  Oscar  and  Lucilla.  It  is  my 
unhappy  destiny  that  I  can  not  possibly  take  you  through 
the  present  narrative  without  sooner  or  later  disclosing  the 
one  weakness  (amiable  weakness)  of  the  gayest  and  brightest 
and  best-preserved  man  of  his  time. 

Ah,  I  am  now  treading  on  egg-shells,  I  know  I  The  En- 
glish spectre  called  Propriety  springs  tip  rampant  on  my 
writing-table,  and  whispers  furiously  in  my  en;-,  "  Tdadamc 
Pratolungo,  raise  a  blush  on  the  Check  of  Innocence,  and  it 


POOK   MISS  FINCH.  115 

is  all  over  from  that  moment  with  you  and  your  story." 
Oh,  inflammable  Cheek  of  Innocence,  be  good-natured  for 
once,  and  I  will  rack  my  brains  to  try  if  I  can  put  it  to  you 
without  offense !  May  I  picture  good  Papa  as  an  elder  in 
the  Temple  of  Venus,  burning  incense  inexhaustibly  on  the 
altar  of  love!  No:  Temple  of  Venus  is  Pagan;  altar  of  love 
is  not  proper — take  them  out.  Let  me  only  say  of  my  ever- 
green parent  that  his  lite  from  youth  to  age  had  been  one 
unintermitting  recognition  of  the  charms  of  the  sex,  and  that 
my  sisters  and  I  (being  of  the  sex)  could  not  find  it  in  our 
hearts  to  abandon  him  on  that  account.  So  handsome,  so 
affectionate,  so  sweet-tempered ;  with  only  one  fault,  and 
that  a  compliment  to  the  women,  who  naturally  adored  him 
in  return  !  We  accepted  our  destiny.  For  years  past  (since 
the  death  of  Mamma)  we  accustomed  ourselves  to  live  in 
perpetual  dread  of  his-  marrying  some  one  of  the  hundreds 
of  unscrupulous  hussies  who  took  possession  of  him ;  and, 
worse  if  possible  than  that,  of  his  fighting  duels  about  them 
with  men  young  enough  to  be  his  grandsons.  Papa  was  so 
susceptible!  Papa  was  so  brave!  Over  and  over  again  I 
had  been  summoned  to  interfere,  as  the  daughter  who  had 
the  strongest  influence  over  him,  and  had  succeeded  in  ef- 
fecting liis  rescue,  now  by  one  means  and  now  by  another; 
ending  always,  however,  in  the  same  sad  way,  by  the  sacri- 
fice of  money  for  damages  —  on  which  damages,  when  the 
woman  is  shameless  enough  to  claim  them,  my  verdict  is, 
"Serve  her  right!" 

On  the  present  occasion  it  was  the  old  story  over  again. 
My  sisters  had  done  their  best  to  stop  it,  and  had  failed.  I 
had  no  choice  but  to  appear  on  the  scene — to  begin,  perhaps, 
by  boxing  her  ears;  to  end,  certainly,  by  filling  her  pockets. 

My  absence  at  this  time  was  something  more  than  an  an- 
noyance— it  was  a  downright  grief  to  my  blind  Lucilla.  On 
the  morning  of  my  departure  she  clung  to  me  as  if  she  was 
determined  not  to  let  me  go. 

"What  shall  I  do  without  you?"  she  said.  "It  is  hard, 
in  these  dreary  clays,  to  lose  the  comfort  of  hearing  your 
voice.  I  shall  feel  all  my  security  gone  when  I  feel  you  no 
longer  near  me.  How  many  days  shall  you  be  away?" 

"  A  day  to  get  to  Paris,"  I  answered  ;  "  and  a  day  to  get 
back — two.  Five  days  (if  I  can  do  it  in  the  time)  to  thunder- 


1  1  0  POOR    MISS    FIXCH. 

strike  the  hussy  and  to  rescue  Papa — seven.  Let  us  say,  if 
possible,  a  week." 

"  You  must  be  back,  no  matter  what  happens,  before  the 
new  year." 

"Why?" 

"  I  have  my  yearly  visit  to  pay  to  my  aunt.  It  has  been 
twice  put  off.  I  must  absolutely  go  to  London  on  the  last 
day  of  the  old  year,  and  stay  there  my  allotted  three  months 
in  Miss  Batchford's  house.  I  had  hoped  to  be  Oscar's  wile 
before  the  time  came  round  again — "  (she  waited  a  moment 
to  steady  her  voice).  "That  is  all  over  now.  We  must  be 
parted.  If  I  can't  leave  you  here  to  console  him  and  to  take 
care  of  him,  come  what  may  of  it — I  shall  stay  at  Dimchurch." 

Her  staying  at  Dimchurch  while  she  was  still  unmarried 
meant,  under  the  terms  of  her  uncle's  will,  sacrificing  her 
fortune.  If  Reverend  Finch  had  heard  her,  he  would  not 
even  have  been  able  to  say  "Inscrutable  Providence;"  he 
would  have  lost  his  senses  on  the  spot. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  I  said  ;  "I  shall  be  back, Lucilla, before 
you  go.  Besides,  Oscar  may  get  better.  He  may  be  able 
to  follow  you  to  London,  and  visit  you  at  your  aunt's." 

She  shook  her  head  with  such  a  sad,  sad  doubt  of  it  that 
the  tears  came  into  my  eyes.  I  gave  her  a  last  kiss,  and 
hurried  away. 

My  route  was  to  Newhaven,  and  then  across  the  Channel 
to  Dieppe.  I  don't  think  I  really  knew  how  fond  I  had 
grown  of  Lucilla  until  I  lost  sight  of  the  rectory  at  the  turn 
in  the  road  to  Brighton.  My  natural  firmness  deserted  me; 
I  felt  torturing  presentiments  that  some  great  misfortune 
would  happen  in  my  absence;  I  astonished  myself — I,  the 
widow  of  the  Spartan  Pratolungo  ! — by  having  a  good  cry, 
like  any  other  woman.  Sooner  or  later  we  susceptible  people 
pay  with  the  heart-ache  for  the  privilege  of  loving.  No 
matter:  heart-ache  or  not,  one  must  have  something  to  love 
in  this  world  as  long  as  one  lives  in  it.  I  have  lived  in  it — 
never  mind  how  many  years — and  I  have  got  Lucilla.  Be- 
fore Lucilla  I  had  the  Doctor.  Before  the  Doctor — ah,  my 
friends,  we  won't  look  back  beyond  the  Doctor ! 


POOK    MISS    FINCH.  11 


CHAPTER  THE   NINETEENTH. 

SECOND  RESULT  OF  THE  ROBBERY. 

THE  history  of  my  proceedings  in  Paris  can  be  dismissed  in 
^very  few  words.  It  is  only  necessary  to  dwell  in  detail  on 
one  among  the  many  particulars  which  connect  themselves 
in  my  memory  with  the  rescue  of  good  Papa. 

The  affair  this  time  assumed  the  gravest  possible  aspect. 
The  venerable  victim  had  gone  the  length  of  renewing  his 

o  o  o 

youth  in  respect  of  his  teeth,  his  hair,  his  complexion,  and 
his  figure  (this  last  involving  the  purchase  of  a  pair  of  stays). 
I  declare  I  hardly  knew  him  again,  lie  was  so  outrageously 
and  unnaturally  young.  The  utmost  stretch  of  my  influence 
was  exerted  over  him  in  vain.  He  embraced  me  with  the 
most  touching  fervor;  he  expressed  the  noblest  sentiments; 
but  in  the  matter  of  his  contemplated  marriage  he  was  im- 
movable. Lile  was  only  tolerable  to  him  on  one  condition. 
The  beloved  object,  or  death :  such  was  the  programme  of 
this  volcanic  old  man. 

To  make  the  prospect  more  hopeless  still,  the  beloved  ob- 
ject proved,  on  this  occasion,  to  be  a  bold  enough  woman  to 
play  her  trump  card  at  starting. 

I  give  the  jade  her  due.  She  assumed  a  perfectly  unas- 
sailable attitude  :  we  had  her  full  permission  to  break  off 
the  match — if  we  could.  "I  refer  you  to  your  father.  Pray 
understand  that  /don't  wish  to  marry  him  if  his  daughters 
object  to  it.  He  has  only  to  say, '  Release  me;'  from  that 
moment  he  is  free."  There  was  no  contending  against  such 
a  system  of  defense  as  this.  We  knew  as  well  as  she  did  that 
our  fascinated  parent  would  not  say  the  word.  Our  one 
chance  was  to  spend  money  in  investigating  the  antecedent 
indiscretions  of  this  lady's  life,  and  to  produce  against  her 
proof  so  indisputable  that  not  even  an  old  man's  infatuation 
could  say,  This  is  a  lie. 

We  disbursed;  we  investigated;  we  secured  our  proof. 
It  took  a  fortnight.  At  the  end  of  that  time  we  had  the 
necessary  materials  in  hand  lor  opening  the  eyes  of  good  Papa. 


]18  TOOK    MISS    FINCH. 

In  the  course  of  the  inquiry  I  was  brought  into  contact 
with  many  strange  people — among  others  with  a  man  who 
startled  me,  at  our  first  interview,  by  presenting  a  personal 
deformity  which,  with  all  my  experience  of  the  world,  I  now 
saw,  oddly  enough,  for  the  first  time. 

The  man's  face,  instead  of  exhibiting  any  of  the  usual 
shades  of  complexion,  was  hideously  distinguished  by  a 
superhuman — I  had"  almost  said  a  devilish — coloring  of  livid 
blackish-6/we/  He  proved  to  be  a  most  kind,  intelligent,  and 
serviceable  person.  But  when  we  first  confronted  each 
other  his  horrible  color  so  startled  me  that  I  could  not  re- 
press a  cry  of  alarm.  He  not  only  passed  over  my  involun- 
tary act  of  rudeness  in  the  most  indulgent  manner  —  he 
explained  to  me  the  cause  which  had  produced  his  peculiarity 
of  complexion,  so  as  to  put  me  at  my  ease  before  we  entered 
on  the  delicate  private  inquiry  which  had  brought  us  together. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  this  unfortunate  man,  "for  not 
having  warned  you  of  my  disfigurement  before  I  entered  the 
room.  There  are  hundreds  of  people  discolored  as  I  am  in 
the  various  parts  of  the  civilized  world ;  and  I  supposed  that 
you  had  met  in  the  course  of  your  experience  with  other 
examples  of  my  case.  The  blue  tinge  in  my  complexion  is 
produced  by  the  effect  on  the  blood  of  Nitrate  of  Silver — 
taken  internally.  It  is  the  only  medicine  which  relieves  suf- 
ferers like  me  from  an  otherwise  incurable  malady.  We 
have  no  alternative  but  to  accept  the  consequences  for  the 
sake  of  the  cure." 

He  did  not  mention  what  his  malady  had  been  ;  and  I  ab- 
stained, it  is  needless  to  say,  from  questioning  him  further. 
I  got  used  to  his  disfigurement  in  the  course  of  my  relations 
with  him  ;  and  I  should  no  doubt  have  forgotten  my  blue 
man  in  attending  to  more  absorbing  matters  of  interest  if 
the  effects  of  Nitrate  of  Silver  as  a  medicine  had  not  been 
once  more  unexpectedly  forced  on  my  attention  in  another 
quarter,  and  under  circumstances  which  surprised  me  in  no 
ordinary  degree. 

Having  saved  Papa  on  the  brink  of — let  us  say,  his  twen- 
tieth precipice,  it  was  next  necessary  to  stay  a  few  days 
longer  and  reconcile  him  to  the  hardship  of  being  rescued 
in  spite  of  himself.  You  would  have  been  greatly  shocked 
if  you  had  seen  how  he  suffered.  He  gnashed  his  expensive 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  110 

teeth;  he  tore  his  beautifully  manufactured  hair.  In  the 
fervor  of  his  emotions  I  have  no  doubt  he  would  have  burst 
his  new  stays — if  I  iiad  not  taken  them  away  and  sold  them 
half  priee,  and  made  (to  that  small  extent)  a  profit  out  of  our 
calamity  to  set  against  the  loss.  Do  what  one  may  in  the 
detestable  system  of  modern  society,  the  pivot  on  which  it 
all  turns  is  Money.  Money,  when  you  are  saving  Freedom  ! 
Money,  when  you  are  saving  Papa  !  Is  there  no  remedy  for 
this?  A  word  in  your  ear.  Wait  till  the  next  revolution! 

During  the  time  of  my  absence  I  had,  of  course,  corre- 
sponded with  Lucilla. 

Her  letters  to  me — very  sad  and  very  short — reported  a 
melancholy  state  of  things  at  Dimchurch.  While  I  had 
been  away  the  dreadful  epileptic  seizures  had  attacked  Os- 
car with  increasing  frequency  and  increasing  severity.  The 
moment  I  could  see  my  way  to  getting  back  to  England  I 
wrote  to  Lucilla  to  cheer  her  with  the  intimation  of  my  re- 
turn. Two  days  only  before  my  departure  from  Paris  I  re- 
ceived another  letter  from  her.  I  was  weak  enough  to  be 
almost  afraid  to  open  it.  Her  writing  to  me  again,  when 
she  knew  that  we  should  be  reunited  at  such  an  early  date, 
suggested  that  she  must  have  some  very  startling  news  to 
communicate.  My  mind  misgave  me  that  it  would  prove  to 
be  news  of  the  worst  sort. 

I  summoned  courage  to  open  the  envelope.  Ah,  what 
fools  we  are!  For  once  that  our  presentiments  come  right, 
they  prove  a  hundred  times  to  be  wrong.  Instead  of  dis- 
tressing me,  the  letter  delighted  me.  Our  gloomy  prospect 
was  brightening  at  last. 

Thus,  feeling  her  way  over  the  paper  in  her  large  childish 
characters,  Lucilla  wrote: 

"DEAREST  FRIEND  AND  SISTER, — I  can  not  wait  until  we 
meet  to  tell  you  my  good  news.  The  Brighton  doctor  has 
been  dismissed,  and  a  doctor  from  London  has  been  tried  in- 
stead. My  dear,  for  intellect  there  is  nothing  like  London. 
The  new  man  sees,  thinks,  and  makes  up  his  mind  on  the 
spot.  He  has  a  way  of  his  own  of  treating  Oscar's  case; 
suid  he  answers  for  curing  him  of  the  horrible  fits.  There  is 
news  for  you!  Come  back,  and  let  us  jump  for  joy  togeth- 
er. How  wrong  I  was  to  doubt  the  future!  Never,  never, 


120  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

never  will  I  doubt  it  again.     This  is  the  longest  letter  I 
have  ever  written. 

"  Your  affectionate  LUCILLA." 

To  this  a  postcript  was  added,  in  Oscar's  handwriting,  as 
follows : 

"Lucilla  has  told  you  that  there  is  some  hope  for  mo  at 
last.  What  I  write  in  this  place  is  written  without  her 
knowledge — for  your  private  ear  only.  Take  the  first  op- 
portunity you  can  find  of  coming  to  see  me  at  Browndown, 
without  allowing  Lucilla  to  hear  of  it.  I  have  a  great  favor 
to  ask  of  you.  My  happiness  depends  on  your  granting  it. 
You  shall  know  what  it  is  when  we  meet.  OSCAE." 

This  postscript  puzzled  inc. 

It  was  not  in  harmony  with  the  implicit  confidence  which 
I  had  observed  Oscar  to  place  habitually  in  Lucilla.  It 
jarred  on  my  experience  of  his  character,  which  presented 
him  to  me  as  the  reverse  of  a  reserved,  secretive  man.  His 
concealment  of  his  identity  when  he  first  came  among  us  had 
been  a  forced  concealment — due  entirely  to  his  horror  of  be- 
ing identified  with  the  hero  of  the  trial.  In  all  the  ordinary 
relations  of  life  he  was  open  and  unreserved  to  a  fault.  That 
he  eould  have  a  secret  to  keep  from  Lucilla,  and  to  .confide 
to  me,  was  something  perfectly  unintelligible  to  my  mind. 
It  highly  excited  my  curiosity  ;  it  gave  me  a  new  reason  for 
longing  to  get  back. 

I  was  able  to  make  all  my  arrangements,  and  to  bid  adien 
to  my  father  and  my  sisters  on  the  evening  of  the  twenty- 
third.  Early  on  the  morning  of  the  twenty-fourth  I  left 
Paris,  and  reached  Dimchurch  in  time  ibr  the  final  festivities 
in  celebration  of  Christmas-eve. 

The  first  hour  of  Christmas-day  had  struck  on  the  clock  in 
our  own  pretty  sitting-room  before  I  could  prevail  upon  Lu- 
cilla to  let  me  rest,  after  my  journey,  in  bed.  She  was  now 
once  more  the  joyous,  light-hearted  creature  of  our  happier 
time ;  and  she  had  so  much  to  say  to  me,  that  not  even  her 
father  himself  (on  this  occasion)  could  have  talked  her  down. 
The  next  morning  she  paid  the  penalty  of  exciting  herself 
overniht.  When  I  went  into  her  rouin  she  was  sii 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  121 

from  a  nervous  headache,  and  was  not  able  to  rise  at  her 
usual  hour.  She  proposed  of  her  own  accord  that  I  should 
go  alone  to  Browndown  to  see  Oscar  on  my  return.  It  is 
only  doing  common  justice  to  myself  to  say  that  this  was  a 
relief  to  me.  If  she  had  had  the  use  of  her  eyes,  my  con- 
science Avould  have  been  easy  enough ;  but  I  shrank  from 
deceiving  my  dear  blind  girl  even  in  the  slightest  things. 

So,  with  Lucilla's  knowledge  and  approval,  I  went  to  Os- 
car alone. 

I  found  him  fretful  and  anxious,  ready  to  flame  out  into 
one  of  his  sudden  passions  on  the  smallest  provocation.  Not 
the  slightest  reflection  of  Lucilla's  recovered  cheerfulness 
appeared  in  Lucilla's  lover. 

"Has  she  said  any  thing  to  you  about  the  new  doctor?" 
were  the  first  words  he  addressed  to  me. 

"She  has  told  me  that  she  feels  the  greatest  faith  in  him," 
I  answered.  "She  firmly  believes  that  he  speaks  the  truth 
in  saying  he  can  cure  you." 

"Did  she  show  any  curiosity  to  know  how  he  is  curing 
me?" 

"Not  the  slightest  curiosity  that  I  could  see.  It  is 
enough  for  her  that  you  are  to  be  cured.  The  rest  she 
leaves  to  the  doctor." 

My  last  answer  appeared  to  relieve  him.  He  sighed,  and 
leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "That's  right!"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  I  am  glad  to  hear  that." 

"  Is  the  doctor's  treatment  of  you  a  secret  ?"  I  asked. 

"It  must  be  a  secret  from  Lucilla,"  he  said,  speaking  very 
earnestly.  "If  she  attempts  to  find  it  out,  she  must  be  kept 
— for  the  present,  at  least — from  all  knowledge  of  it.  No- 
body has  any  influence  over  her  but  you.  I  look  to  you  to 
help  inc." 

"Is  this  the  favor  you  had  to  ask  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Am  I  to  know  the  secret  of  the  medical  treatment?" 

"  Certainly  !  How  can  I  expect  you  to  help  me  unless 
you  know  what  a  serious  reason  there  is  for  keeping  Lucilla 
in  the  dark  ?" 

He  laid  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  two  words  "serious  rea- 
son." I  began  to  feel  a  little  uneasy.  I  had  never  yet 
taken  the  slightest  advantage  of  my  poor  Lucilla's  blind- 

F 


122  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

ness.  And  here  was  her  promised  husband — of  all  the  peo- 
ple in  the  world — proposing  to  me  to  keep  her  in  the  dark ! 

"Is  the  new  doctor's  treatment  dangerous?"  I  inquired. 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"  Is  it  not  so  certain  as  he  has  led  Lucilla  to  believe  ?" 

"It  is  quite  certain." 

"Did  the  other  doctors  know  of  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  did  they  not  try  it?" 

"They  were  afraid." 

"  Afraid  ?     What  -is  the  treatment  ?" 

"  Medicine." 

"Many  medicines?  or  one?" 

"  Only  one." 

"  What  is  the  name  of  it  ?" 

"Nitrate  of  Silver." 

I  started  to  my  feet,  looked  at  him,  and  dropped  back  into 
my  chair. 

My  mind  reverted,  the  instant  I  recovered  myself,  to  the 
effect  produced  on  me  when  the  blue  man  in  Paris  first  en- 
tered my  presence.  In  informing  me  of  the  effect  of  the 
medicine  he  had  (yon  will  remember)  concealed  from  me  the 
malady  for  which  he  had  taken  it.  It  had  been  left  to  Os- 
car, of  all  the  people  in  the  world,  to  enlighten  me — and  that 
by  a  reference  to  his  own  case !  I  was  so  shocked  that  I 
sat  speechless. 

With  his  quick  sensibilities,  there  was  no  need  for  me  to 
express  myself  in  words.  My  face  revealed  to  him  what 
was  passing  in  my  mind. 

"You  have  seen  a  person  who  has  taken  Nitrate  of  Sil- 
ver !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Have  you  ? "  I  asked. 

"  I  know  the  price  I  pay  for  being  cured,"  he  answered, 
quietly. 

His  composure  staggered  me.  "  How  long  have  you  been 
taking  this  horrible  drug?"  I  inquired. 

"A  little  more  than  a  week." 

"I  see  no  change  in  you  yet." 

"The  doctor  tells  me  there  will  be  no  visible  change  for 

0 

weeks  and  weeks  to  come." 

Those  words  roused  a  momentary  hope  in  me.     "There  is 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  123 

time  to  alter  your  mind,"  I  said.  "For  Heaven's  Bake  re- 
consider your  resolution  before  it  is  too  late!" 

He  smiled  bitterly.  "  Weak  as  I  am,"  he  answered,  "  for 
once  my  mind  is  made  up." 

I  suppose  I  took  a  woman's  view  of  the  matter.  I  lost 
my  temper  when  I  looked  at  his  beautiful  complexion,  and 
thought  of  the  future. 

"  Are  you  in  your  right  senses  ?".  I  burst  out.  "  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  you  are  deliberately  bent  on  making 
yourself  an  object  of  horror  to  every  body  who  sees  you." 

"The  one  person  whose  opinion  I  care  for,"  he  replied, 
"  will  never  see  me." 

I  understood  him  at  last.  That  was  the  consideration 
which  had  reconciled  him  to  it ! 

Lucilla's  horror  of  dark  people  and  dark  shades  of  color 
of  all  kinds  was,  it  is  needless  to  say,  recalled  to  my  memory 
by  the  turn  the  conversation  was  taking  now.  Had  she  con- 
fessed it  to  him,  as  she  had  confessed  it  to  me?  No!  I  re- 
membered that  she  had  expressly  warned  me  not  to  admit 
him  into  our  confidence  in  this  matter.  At  an  early  period 
of  their  acquaintance  she  had  asked  him  which  of  his  pa- 
rents he  resembled.  This  led  him  into  telling  her  that  Irs 
lather  had  been  a  dark  man.  Lucilla's  delicacy  had  at  oiu-c 
taken  the  alarm.  "He  speaks  very  tenderly  of  his  dead  fa- 
ther," she  said  to  me.  "It  may  hurt  him  if  he  finds  out  the 
antipathy  I  have  to  dark  people.  Let  us  keep  it  to  our- 
selves." As  things  now  were,  it  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue 
to  remind  him  that  Lucilla  would  hear  of  his  disfigurement 

o 

from  other  people;  and  then  to  warn  him  of  the  unpleasant 
result  that  might  follow.  On  reflection,  however,  I  thought 
it  wiser  to  wait  a  little  and  sound  his  motives  first. 

"Before  you  tell  me  how  I  can  help  you,"  I  said,  "I  want 
to  know  one  thing  more.  Have  you  decided  in  this  serious 
matter  entirely  by  yourself?  Have  you  taken  no  advice?" 

"  I  don't  want  advice,"  he  answered, sharply.  "  My  case  ad- 
mits of  no  choice.  Even  such  a  nervous,  undecided  creature 
as  I  am  can  judge  for  himself  where  there  is  no  alternative." 

"Did  the  doctors  tell  you  there  was  no  alternative?"  I 
asked. 

"The  doctors  hesitated  to  tell  me.  I  had  to  force  it  out 
of  them.  I  said, '  I  appeal  to  your  honor  to  auswer  u  piaiu 


124  POOE    MISS    FINCH. 

question  plainly.  Is  there  any  certain  prospect  of  my  get- 
ting the  better  of  the  fits  ?'  They  only  said, '  At  your  time 
of  life,  we  may  reasonably  hope  so.'  I  pressed  them  closer. 
'  Can  you  fix  a  date  to  which  I  may  look  forward  as  the  date 
of  my  deliverance  ?'  They  could  neither  of  them  do  it.  All 
thev  could  say  was, '  Our  experience  justifies  us  in  believing 
that  you  will  grow  out  of  it;  but  it  does  not  justify  us  in 
saying  when.'  'Then  I  may  be  years  growing  out  of  it?' 
They  were  obliged  to  own  that  it  might  be  so.  'Or  I  may 
never  grow  out  of  it  at  all?'  They  tried  to  turn  the  conver- 
sation. I  wouldn't  have  it.  I  said,  '  Tell  me  honestly,  is 
that  one  of  the  possibilities  in  my  case?'  The  Dimchurch 
doctor  looked  at  the  London  doctor.  The  London  man  said, 
'If  you  will  have  it,  it  is  one  of  the  possibilities.'  Just 
consider  the  prospect  which  his  answer  placed  before  me ! 
Day  after  day,  week  after  week,  month  after  month,  always 
in  danger,  go  where  I  may,  of  falling  down  in  a  fit — is  that 
a  miserable  position?  or  is  it  not?" 

How  could  I  answer  him?     What  could  I  say? 

He  went  on : 

"Add  to  that  wretched  state  of  things  that  I  am  engaged 
to  be  married.  The  hardest  disappointment  which  can  fall 
on  a  man  falls  on  me.  The  happiness  of  my  life  is  within 
my  reach,  and  I  am  forbidden  to  enjoy  it.  It  is  not  only 
my  health  that  is  broken  up;  my  prospects  in  life  are  ruined 
as  well.  The  woman  I  love  is  a  woman  forbidden  to  me 
while  I  suffer  as  I  suffer  now.  Realize  that,  and  then  fancy 
you  see  a  man  sitting  at  this  table  here,  with  pen,  ink,  and 
paper  before  him,  who  has  only  to  scribble  a  line  or  two,  and 
to  begin  the  cure  of  you  from  that  moment.  Deliverance  in 
a  few  months  from  the  horror  of  the  fits;  marriage  in  a  few 
months  to  the  woman  you  love.  That  heavenly  prospect  in 
exchange  for  the  hellish  existence  that  you  arc  enduring 
now.  And  the  one  price  to  pay  for  it,  a  discolored  face  for 
the  rest  of  your  life — which  the  one  person  who  is  dearest  to 
you  will  never  see !  Would  you  have  hesitated  ?  When 
the  doctor  took  up  the  pen  to  Avrite  the  prescription — tell 
me,  if  you  had  been  in  my  place,  would  you  have  said  No?" 

I  still  sat  silent.  My  obstinacy — women  are  such  mules ! 
— declined  to  give  way,  even  when  my  conscience  told  me 
that  he  was  ri^ht. 


POOR   MISS   FIXCH.  125 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  in  the  same  fever  of  excitement 
which  I  remembered  so  well  when  I  had  irritated  him  at 
Browndown  into  telling  me  who  he  really  was. 

"Would  you  have  said  No?"  he  reiterated,  stooping  over 
me,  flushed  and  heated,  as  he  had  stooped  on  that  first  oc- 
casion, when  he  had  whispered  his  name  in  my  ear.  "  Would 
you  ?"  he  repeated,  louder  and  louder — "  would  you  ?" 

At  the  third  reiteration  of  the  words  the  frightful  contor- 
tion that  I  knew  so  well  seized  on  his  face.  The  wrench  to 
the  right  twisted  his  body.  He  dropped  at  my  feet.  Good 
God  !  who  could  have  declared  that  he  was  wrona:,  with 

O  ' 

such  an  argument  in  his  favor  as  I  saw  at  that  moment? 
Who  would  not  have  said  that  any  disfigurement  would  be 
welcome  as  a  refuge  from  this? 

The  servant  ran  in,  and  helped  me  to  move  the  furniture 
to  a  safe  distance  from  him.  "There  won't  be  much  more 
of  it,  ma'am,"  said  the  man,  noticing  my  agitation,  and  try- 
ing to  compose  me.  "  In  a  month  or  two,  the  doctor  says, 
the  medicine  will  get  hold  of  him."  I  could  say  nothing  on 
my  side — I  could  only  reproach  myself  bitterly  for  disputing 
with  him  and  exciting  him,  and  leading  perhaps  to  the  hid- 
eous seizure  which  had  attacked  him  in  my  presence  for  the 
second  time. 

The  fit,  on  this  occasion,  was  a  short  one.  Perhaps  the 
drug  was  already  beginning  to  have  some  influence  over 
him.  In  twenty  minutes  he  was  able  to  resume  his  chair, 
and  to  go  on  talking  to  me. 

"You  think  I  shall  horrify  you  when  my  face  has  turned 
blue,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  smile.  "Don't  I  horrify  you  now 
when  you  see  me  in  convulsions  on  the  floor?" 

I  entreated  him  to  dwell  on  it  no  more. 

"  God  knows,"  I  said,  "  you  have  convinced  me — obstinate 
as  I  am.  Let  us  try  to  think  of  nothing  now  but  of  the 
prospect  of  your  being  cured.  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?" 

"You  have  a  great  influence  over  Lucilla,"  he  said.  "If 
she  expresses  any  curiosity,  in  future  conversations  with 
you,  about  the  effect  of  the  medicine,  check  her  at  once. 
Keep  her  as  ignorant  of  it  as  she  is  now." 

"Why?" 

"Why  !  If  she  knows  what  you  know,  how  will  she  feel? 
Shocked  and  horrified,  as  you  felt.  What  will  she  do?  She 


126  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

will  come  straight  here,  and  try,  as  you  have  tried,  to  per- 
suade me  to  give  it  up.  Is  that  true,  or  not?" 

(Impossible  to  deny  that  it  was  true.) 

"  I  am  so  fond  of  her,"  he  went  on, "  that  I  can  refuse  her 
nothing.  She  would  end  in  making  me  give  it  up.  The  in- 
stant her  back  was  turned  I  should  repent  my  own  weak- 
ness, and  return  to  the  medicine.  Here  is  a  perpetual  strug- 
gle in  prospect  for  a  man  who  is  already  worn  out.  Is  it  de- 
sirable, after  what  you  have  just  seen,  to  expose  me  to 
that?" 

It  would  have  been  useless  cruelty  to  expose  him  to  it. 
How  could  I  do  otherwise  than  consent  to  make  his  sacrifice 
of  himself — his  necessary  sacrifice — as  easy  as  I  could?  At 
the  same  time,  I  implored  him  to  remember  one  thing. 

"Mind,"  I  said,  "  we  can  never  hope  to  keep  her  in  igno- 
rance of  the  change  in  you  when  the  change  comes.  Sooner 
or  later,  some  one  will  let  the  secret  out." 

"I  only  want  it  to  be  concealed  from  her  while  the  disfig- 
urement of  me  is  in  progress,"  he  answered.  "When  noth- 
ing she  can  say  or  do  will  alter  it,  I  will  tell  her  myself. 
She  is  so  happy  in  the  hope  of  my  recovery  !  What  good 
can  be  gained  by  telling  her  beforehand  of  the  penalty  that 
I  pay  for  my  deliverance?  My  ugly  color  will  never  terrify 
my  poor  darling.  As  for  other  persons,  I  shall  not  force  my- 
self on  the  view  of  the  world.  It  is  my  one  wish  to  live  out 
of  the  world.  The  few  people  about  me  will  soon  get  rec- 
onciled to  my  face.  Lucilla  will  set  them  the  example. 
She  won't  trouble  herself  long  about  a  change  in  me  that 
she  can  neither  feel  nor  see." 

Ought  I  to  have  warned  him  here  of  Lucilla's  inveterate 
prejudice,  and  of  the  difficulty  there  might  be  in  reconciling 
her  to  the  change  in  him  when  she  heard  of  it?  I  dare  say 
I  ought.  I  dare  say  I  was  to  blame  in  shrinking  from  in- 
flicting new  anxieties  and  new  distresses  on  a  man  who  had 
already  suffered  so  much.  The  simple  truth  is — I  could  not 
do  it.  Would  you  have  done  it?  Ah, if  you  would,  I  hope 
I  may  never  come  in  contact  with  you.  What  a  horrid 
wretch  you  must  be ! 

The  end  of  it  was  that  I  left  the  house — pledged  to  keep 
Lucilla  in  ignorance  of  the  cost  at  which  Oscar  had  deter- 
mined to  purchase  his  cure. 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  127 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTIETH. 

GOOD   PAPA    AGAIN ! 

THE  promise  I  had  given  did  not  expose  me  to  the  annoy- 
ance of  being  kept  long  on  the  watch  against  accidents.  If 
we  could  pass  safely  over  the  next  five  days,  we  might  feel 
pretty  sure  of  the  future.  On  the  last  day  of  the  old  year 
Lucilla  was  bound  by  the  terms  of  the  will  to  go  to  London, 
and  live  her  allotted  three  months  under  the  roof  of  her 
aunt. 

In  the  short  interval  that  elapsed  before  her  departure 
she  twice  approached  the  dangerous  subject. 

On  the  first  occasion  she  asked  me  if  I  knew  what  medi- 
cine Oscar  was  taking.  I  pleaded  ignorance,  and  passed  at 
once  to  other  matters.  On  the  second  occasion  she  advanced 
still  further  on  the  way  to  discovery  of  the  truth.  She  now 
inquired  if  I  had  heard  how  the  physic  worked  the  cure. 
Having  been  already  informed  that  the  fits  proceeded  from 
a  certain  disordered  condition  of  the  brain,  she  was  anxious 
to  know  whether  the  medical  treatment  was  likely  to  affect 
the  patient's  head.  This  question  (which  I  was,  of  course, 
unable  to  answer)  she  put  to  both  the  doctors.  Already 
warned  by  Oscar,  they  quieted  her  by  declaring  that  the 
process  of  cure  acted  by  general  means,  and  did  not  attack 
the  head.  From  that  moment  her  curiosity  was  satisfied. 
Her  mind  had  other  objects  of  interest  to  dwell  on  before 
she  left  Dimehurch.  She  touched  on  the  perilous  topic  no 
more. 

It  was  arranged  that  I  was  to  accompany  Lucilla  to  Lon- 
don. 

Oscar  was  to  follow  us  when  the  state  of  his  health  per- 
mitted him  to  take  the  journey.  As  betrothed  husband  of 
Lucilla,  he  had  his  right  of  entry  during  her  residence  in  her 
aunt's  house.  As  for  me,  I  was  admitted  at  Luc-ilia's  inter- 
cession. She  declined  to  be  separated  from  me  for  three 
months.  Miss  Batchford  wrote,  most  politely,  to  offer  me  a 
hospitable  welcome  during  the  day.  She  had  no  second 


128  POOR   MISS  FINCH. 

spai-e  room  at  her  disposal ;  so  we  settled  that  I  was  to 
sleep  at  a  lodging-house  in  the  neighborhood.  In  this  same 
house  Oscar  was  also  to  be  accommodated  when  the  doctors 
sanctioned  his  removal  to  London.  It  was  now  thought 
likely — if  all  went  well — that  the  marriage  might  be  cele- 
brated, at  the  end  of  the  three  months,  from  Miss  Batchford's 
residence  in  town. 

Three  days  before  the  date  of  Lucilla's  departure  these 
plans  —  so  far  as  I  was  concerned  in  them  —  were  all  over- 
thrown. 

A  letter  from  Paris  reached  me,  with  more  bad  news.  My 
absence  had  produced  the  worst  possible  effect  on  good 
Papa.  The  moment  my  influence  had  been  removed  he  had 
become  perfectly  unmanageable.  My  sisters  assured  me 
that  the  abominable  woman  from  whom  I  had  rescued  him 
would  most  certainly  end  in  marrying  him,  after  all,  unless  I 
re-appeared  immediately  on  the  scene.  What  was  to  be 
done?  Nothing  was  to  be  done  but  to  fly  into  a  rage,  to 
grind  my  teeth,  and  throw  down  all  my  things,  in  the  soli- 
tude of  my  own  room,  and  then  to  go  back  to  Paris. 

Lucilla  behaved  charmingly.  When  she  saw  how  angry 
and  how  distressed  I  was  she  suppressed  all  exhibition  of 
disappointment  on  her  side,  with  the  truest  and  kindest  con- 
sideration for  my  feelings.  "Write  to  me  often,"  said  the 
charming  creature ;  "  and  come  back  to  me  as  soon  as  you 
can."  Her  father  took  her  to  London.  Two  days  before 
they  left  I  said  good-by  at  the  rectory  and  at  Browndown, 
and  started — once  more  by  the  Newhaven  and  Dieppe  route 
— for  Paris. 

I  was  in  no  humor  (as  your  English  saying  is)  to  mince 
matters  in  controlling  this  new  outbreak  on  the  part  of  my 
evergreen  parent.  I  insisted  on  instantly  removing  him 
from  Paris,  and  taking  him  on  a  Continental  tour.  I  was 
proof  against  his  paternal  embraces;  I  was  deaf  to  his  noble 
sentiments.  He  declared  he  should  die  on  the  road.  When 
I  look  back  at  it  now,  I  am  amused  at  my  own  cruelty.  I 
said,  "En  route, Papa !"  and  packed  him  up,  and  took  him  to 
Italy. 

He  became  enamored  at  intervals,  now  of  one  fair  traveler 
and  now  of  another,  all  through  the  journey  from  Paris  to 
Rome.  (Wonderful  old  man  !)  Arrived  at  Rome  —  that 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  129 

hot-bed  of  the  enemies  of  mankind — I  saw  my  way  to  put- 
ting a  moral  extinguisher  on  the  author  of  my  being.  The 
Eternal  City  contains  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  churches 
and  (say)  three  million  and  sixty-five  pictures.  I  insisted 
on  his  seeing  them  all — at  the  advanced  age  of  seventy-five 
years !  The  sedative  result  followed  exactly  as  I  had  antic- 
ipated. .  I  stupefied  good  Papa  with  churches  and  pictures, 
and  then  I  tried  him  with  a  marble  woman  to  begin  with. 
He  fell  asleep  before  the  Venus  of  the  Capitol.  When  I  saw 
that  I  said  to  myself,  Now  he  will  do ;  Don  Juan  is  reformed 
at  last. 

Lucilla's  correspondence  with  me — at  first  cheerful — grad- 
ually assumed  a  desponding  tone. 

Six  weeks  had  passed  since  her  departure  from  Dimchurch; 
and  still  Oscar's  letters  held  out  no  hope  of  his  being  able 
to  join  her  in  London.  His  recovery  was  advancing,  but  not 
so  rapidly  as  his  medical  adviser  had  anticipated.  It  was 
possible — to  look  the  worst  in  the  face  boldly — that  he  might 
not  get  the  doctor's  permission  to  leave  Browndown  before 
the  time  arrived  for  Lucilla's  return  to  the  rectory.  In  this 
event  he  could  only  entreat  her  to  be  patient,  and  to  remem- 
ber that  though  he  was  gaining  ground  but  slowly,  he  was 
still  getting  on.  Under  these  circumstances  Lucilla  was 
naturally  vexed  and  dejected.  She  had  never  (she  wrote), 
from  her  girlhood  upward,  spent  such  a  miserable  time  with 
her  aunt  as  she  was  spending  now. 

On  reading  this  letter  I  instantly  smelt  something  wrong. 

I  corresponded  with  Oscar  almost  as  frequently  as  with 
Lucilla.  His  last  letter  to  me  flatly  contradicted  his  last 
letter  to  his  promised  wife.  In  writing  to  my  address  he 
declared  himself  to  be  rapidly  advancing  toward  recovery. 
Under  the  new  treatment,  the  fits  succeeded  each  other  at 
longer  and  longer  intervals,  and  endured  a  shorter  and 
shorter  time.  Here,  then,  was  plainly  a  depressing  report 
sent  to  Lucilla,  and  an  encouraging  report  sent  to  me. 

What  did  it  mean? 

Oscar's  next  letter  to  me  answered  the  question. 

"I  told  you  in  my  last"  (he  wrote)  "  that  the  discoloration 
of  my  skin  had  begun.  The  complexion  which  you  were 
once  so  good  as  to  admire  has  disappeared  forever.  I  am 
now  of  a  livid  ashen  color — so  like  death  that  I  sometimes 

P2 


130  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

startle  myself  when  I  look  in  the  glass.  In  about  six  weeks 
more,  as  the  doctor  calculates,  this  will  deepen  to  a  blackish- 
blue;  and  then  'the  saturation'  (as  he  calls  it)  will  be 
complete. 

"So  far  from  feeling  any  useless  regrets  at  having  taken 
the  medicine  which  is  producing  these  ugly  effects,!  am  more 
grateful  to  my  Nitrate  of  Silver  than  words  can  say.  If  you 
ask  for  the  secret  of  this  extraordinary  exhibition  of  philoso- 
phy on  my  part,  I  can  give  it  in  one  line.  For  the  last  ten 
days  I  have  not  had  a  fit.  In  other  words,  for  the  last  ten 
days  I  have  lived  in  Paradise.  I  declare  I  would  have  cheer- 
fully lost  an  arm  or  a  leg  to  gain  the  blessed  peace  of  mind, 
the  intoxicating  confidence  in  the  future — it  is  nothing  less 
~that  I  feel  now. 

"  Still,  there  is  a  drawback  which  prevents  me  from  enjoy- 
ing perfect  tranquillity  even  yet.  When  was  there  ever  a 
pleasure  in  the  world  without  a  lurking  possibility  of  pain 
hidden  away  in  it  somewhere? 

"  I  have  lately  discovered  a  peculiarity  in  Lucilla  which  is 
new  to  me,  and  which  has  produced  a  very  unpleasant  im- 
pression on  my  mind.  My  proposed  avowal  to  her  of  the 
eliange  in  my  personal  appearance  has  now  become  a  matter 
of  far  more  serious  difficulty  than  I  had  anticipated  when  the 
question  was  discussed  between  you  and  me  at  Browndown. 

"Have  you  ever  found  out  that  the  strongest  antipathy 
she  has  is  her  purely  imaginary  antipathy  to  dark  people 
and  to  dark  shades  of  color  of  all  kinds?  This  strange 
prejudice  is  the  result,  as  I  suppose,  of  some  morbid  growth 
of  her  blindness,  quite  as  inexplicable  to  herself  as  to  other 
people.  Explicable,  or  not,  there  it  is  in  her.  Read  the  ex- 
tract that  follows  from  one  of  her  letters  to  her  father,  which 
her  father  showed  to  me,  and  you  will  not  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  I  tremble  for  myself  when  the  time  comes  for  tell- 
ing her  what  I  have  done. 

"  Thus  she  writes  to  Mr.  Finch : 

"'I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  had  a  little  quarrel  with  my 
aunt.  It  is  all  made  up  now,  but  it  has  hardly  left  us  such 
good  friends  as  we  were  before.  Last  week  there  was  a 
dinner-party  here;  and  among  the  guests  was  a  Hindoo 
gentleman  (converted  to  Christianity)  to  whom  my  aunt  has 
taken  a  irroat  faiu-v.  While  the  maid  was  dressing  me  I 


POOR   MISS    PINCH.  131 

unluckily  inquired  if  she  had  seen  the  Hindoo — and  hearing 
that  she  had,  I  still  more  unfortunately  askod  her  to  tell  me 
what  he  was  like.  She  described  him  as  being  very  tall  and 
lean,  with  a  dark-brown  complexion  and  glittering  black 
eyes.  My  mischievous  fancy  instantly  set  to  work  on  this 
horrid  combination  of  darkness.  Try  as  I  might  to  resist  it, 
my  mind  drew  a  dreadful  picture  of  the  Hindoo,  as  a  kind  of 
monster  in  human  form.  I  would  have  given  worlds  to  have 
been  excused  from  going  down  into  the  drawing-room.  At 
the  last  moment  I  was  sent  for,and  the  Hindoo  was  introduced 
to  me.  The  instant  I  felt  him  approaching  my  darkness  was 
peopled  with  brown  demons.  He  took  mv  hand.  I  tried 
hard  to  control  myself — but  I  really  could  not  help  shud- 
dering and  starting  back  when  he  touched  me.  To  make 
matters  worse,  he  sat  next  to  me  at  dinner.  In  five  minutes 
I  had  long,  lean,  black-eyed  beings  all  round  me;  perpetually 
growing  in  numbers,  and  pressing  closer  and  closer  on  me  as 
they  grew.  It  ended  in  my  being  obliged  to  leave  the  table. 
When  the  guests,  were  all  gone  my  aunt  was  furious.  I  ad- 
mitted my  conduct  was  unreasonable  in  the  last  degree. 
At  the  same  time  I  begged  her  to  make  allowance  for  me. 

oo 

I  reminded  her  that  I  was  blind  at  a  year  old,  and  that  I  had 
really  no  idea  of  what  any  person  was  like,  except  by  draw- 
ing pictures  of  them  in  my  imagination,  from  description, 
and  from  my  own  knowledge  obtained  by  touch.  I  appealed 
to  her  to  remember  that,  situated  as  I  am,  my  fancy  is  pecul- 
iarly liable  to  play  me  tricks,  and  that  I  have  no  sight  to 
see  with,  and  to  show  me — as  other  people's  eyes  show  them 
— when  they  have  taken  a  false  view  of  persons  and  things. 
It  was  all  in  vain.  My  aunt  would  admit  of  no  excuse  for 
me.  I  was  so  irritated  by  her  injustice  that  I  reminded  her 
of  an  antipathy  of  her  own,  quite  as  ridiculous  as  mine — an 
antipathy  to  cats.  She,  who  can  see  that  cats  are  harmless, 
shudders  and  turns  pale,  for  all  that,  if  a  cat  is  in  the  same 
room  with  her.  Set  my  senseless  horror  of  dark  people 
against  her  senseless  horror  of  cats  —  and  say  which  of  us 
has  the  rirjht  to  be  angry  with  the  other?'" 

o  o    •/ 

Such  was  the  quotation  from  Lucilla's  letter  to  her  father. 
At  the  end  of  it  Oscar  resumed,  as  follows: 

"I  wonder  whether  you  will  now  understand  me,  if  I  own 
to  you  that  I  have  made  the  worst  of  my  case  in  writing  to 


132  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

Lucilla  ?  It  is  the  only  excuse  I  can  produce  for  not  joining 
her  in  London.  Weary  as  I  am  of  our  long  separation,!  can 
not  prevail  on  myself  to  run  the  risk  of  meeting  her  in  the 
presence  of  strangers,  who  would  instantly  notice  my  fright- 
ful color,  and  betray  it  to  her.  Think  of  her  shuddering  and 
starting  back  from  my  hand  when  it  took  hers!  No!  no! 
I  must  choose  my  own  opportunity,  in  this  quiet  place,  of 
telling  her  what  (I  suppose)  must  be  told — with  time  before 
me  to  prepare  her  mind  for  the  disclosure  (if  it  must  come), 
and  with  nobody  but  you  near  to  see  the  first  mortifying 
effect  of  the  shock  which  I  shall  inflict  on  her. 

"  I  have  only  to  add,  before  I  release  you,  that  I  write 
these  lines  in  the  strictest  confidence.  You  have  promised 
not  to  mention  my  disfigurement  to  Lucilla,  unless  I  first 
give  you  leave.  I  now,  more  than  ever,  hold  you  to  that 
promise.  The  few  people  about  me  here  are  all  pledged  to 
secrecy  as  you  are.  If  it  is  really  inevitable  that  she  should 
know  the  truth — I  alone  must  tell  it;  in  my  own  way,  and  at 
my  own  time." 

"If  it  must  come,"  "if  it  is  really  inevitable"  —  these 
phrases  in  Oscar's  letter  satisfied  me  that  he  was  already 
beginning  to  comfort  himself  with  an  insanely  delusive  idea 
— the  idea  that  it  might  be  possible  permanently  to  conceal 
the  ugly  personal  change  in  him  from  Lucilla's  knowledge. 

If  I  had  been  at  Dimchurch,  I  have  no  doubt  I  should  have 
begun  to  feel  seriously  uneasy  at  the  turn  which  things  ap- 
peared to  be  taking  now. 

But  distance  has  a  very  strange  effect  in  altering  one's 
customary  way  of  thinking  of  affairs  at  home.  Being  in 
Italy  instead  of  in  England,  I  dismissed  Lucilla's  antipathies 
and  Oscar's  scruples,  as  both  alike  unworthy  of  serious  con- 
sideration. Sooner  or  later,  time  (I  considered)  would  bring 
these  two  troublesome  young  people  to  their  senses.  Their 
marriage  would  follow,  and  there  would  be  an  end  of  it !  In 
the  mean  while  I  continued  to  feast  good  Papa  on  holy 
families  and  churches.  Ah,  poor  dear,  how  he  yawned  over 
Caraccis  and  cupolas !  and  how  fervently  he  promised  never 
to  fall  in  love  again,  if  I  would  only  take  him  back  to  Paris ! 

We  set  our  faces  homeward  a  day  or  two  after  the  receipt 
of  Oscar's  letter.  I  left  my  reformed  father  resting  his  aching 


POOR   MISS  FINCH.  133 

old  bones  in  his  own  easy-chair;  capable  perhaps,  even  yet, 
of  contracting  a  Platonic  attachment  to  a  lady  of  his  own 
time  of  life,  but  capable  (us  I  firmly  believed)  of  nothing 
more.  "  Oh,  my  child,  let  me  rest !"  he  said,  when  I  wished 
him  good-by,  "  and  never  show  me  a  church  or  a  picture 
again  as  long  as  I  live !" 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FIRST. 

MADAME    PRATOLUNGO    RETURNS   TO    DIMCHURCH. 

I  REACHED  London  in  the  last  week  of  Lucilla's  residence 
under  her  aunt's  roof,  and  waited  in  town  until  it  was  time 
to  take  her  back  to  Dimchurch. 

As  soon  as  it  had  become  obviously  too  late  for  Oscar  to 
risk  the  dreaded  meeting  with  Lucilla,  before  strangers,  his 
correspondence  had,  as  a  matter  of  course,  assumed  a  brighter 
tone.  She  was  in  high  spirits  once  more,  poor  thing,  when 
we  met,  and  full  of  delight  at  having  me  near  her  agafn. 
We  thoroughly  enjoyed  our  few  days  in  London,  and  took 
our  fill  of  music  at  operas  and  concerts.  I  got  on  excellently 
well  with  the  aunt  until  the  last  day,  when  something  hap- 
pened which  betrayed  me  into  an  avowal  of  my  political 
convictions. 

The  old  lady's  consternation,  when  she  discovered  that  I 
looked  hopefully  forward  to  a  coining  extermination  of  kings 
and  priests,  and  a  general  redistribution  of  property  all  over 
the  civilized  globe,  is  unutterable  in  words.  On  that  occa- 
sion I  mado  one  more  aristocrat  tremble.  I  also  closed  Miss 
Batchford's  door  on  me  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  No  matter! 
The  day  is  coming  when  the  Batchford  branch  of  humanity 
will  not  possess  a  door  to  close.  •  All  Europe  is  drifting 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  Pratolungo  programme.  Cheer  up, 
my  brothers  without  land,  and  my  sisters  without  money  in 
the  Funds!  We  will  have  it  out  with  the  infamous  rich  yet. 
Long  live  the  Republic  ! 

Early  in  the  month  of  April  Lucilla  and  I  took  leave  of 
the  Metropolis,  and  went  back  to  Dimchurch. 

As  we  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  rectory,  as  Lucilla 
began  to  flush  and  fidget  in  eager  anticipation  of  her  reunion 
with  Oscar,  that  uneasiness  of  mind  which  I  had  so  readily 


134  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

dismissed  while  I  was  in  Italy  began  to  find  its  way  back  to 
me  again.  My  imagination  now  set  to  work  at  drawing 
pictures — startling  pictures  of  Oscar  as  a  changed  being,  as 
a  Medusa's  head  too  terrible  to  be  contemplated  by  mortal 
eyes.  Where  would  he  meet  us?  At  the  entrance  to  the 
village?  No.  At  the  rectory  gate?  No.  In  the  quieter 
part  of  the  garden  which  was  at  the  back  of  the  house  ? 
Yes !  There  he  stood,  waiting  for  us — alone. 

Lucilla  flew  into  his  arms  with  a  cry  of  delight.  I  stood 
behind  and  looked  at  them. 

Ah,  how  vividly  I  remember — at  the  moment  when  she 
embraced  him — the  first  shock  of  seeing  the  two  faces  to- 
gether! The  drug  had  done  its  work.  I  saw  her  fair  cheek 
laid  innocently  against  the  livid  blackish-blue  of  his  discol- 
ored skin.  Heavens  !  how  cruelly  that  first  embrace  marked 
the  contrast  between  what  he  had  been  when  I  left  him  and 
what  he  had  changed  to  when  I  saw  him  now !  His  eyes 
turned  from  her  face  to  mine,  in  silent  appeal  to  me  while  lie 
held  her  in  his  arms.  Their  look  told  me  the  thought  in  him, 
as  eloquently  as  if  he  had  put  it  into  words.  "You,  who 
love  her,  say — can  we  ever  be  cruel  enough  to  tell  her  of 
this?" 

I  approached  to  take  his  hand.  At  the  same  moment  Lu- 
cilla suddenly  drew  back  from  him,  laid  her  It-It  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  passed  her  right  hand  rapidly  over  his  face. 

For  an  instant  I  felt  my  heart  stand  still.  Her  miraculous 
sensitiveness  of  touch  had  detected  the  dark  color  of  my 
dress  on  the  day  when  we  first  met.  Would  it  serve  her 
this  time  as  truly  as  it  had  served  her  then  ? 

She  paused  after  the  first  passage  of  her  fingers  over  his 
face,  with  breathless  attention  to  what  she  was  about  which, 
in  my  own  case,  I  remembered  so  well.  A  second  time  she 
passed  her  hand  over  him — considered  again — and  turned 
my  way  next. 

"What  does  his  face  tell  you?"  she  asked.  "It  tells  me 
that  he  has  something  on  \\\x  mind.  What  is  it  ?" 

We  were  safe — so  far  !  The  hateful  medicine,  in  altering 
the  color,  had  not  affected  the  texture,  of  his  skin.  As  her 
touch  had  left  it  on  her  departure,  so  her  touch  found  it  again 
on  her  return. 

Before  I  could  reply  to  Lucilla,  Oscar  answered  for  himself. 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  137 

"  Nothing  is  wrong,  my  darling,"  he  said.  "  My  nerves 
are  a  little  out  of  order  to-day ;  and  the  joy  of  seeing  you 
has  overcome  me  for  the  moment — that  is  all." 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it  is  not  all."     She   touched  his  heart. . 
"  Why  is  it  beating  so  fast  ?"     She  took  his  hand  in  hers. 
"  Why  has  it  turned  so  cold  ?     I  must  know.     I  will  know  ! 
Come  indoors." 

At  that  awkward  moment  the  most  wearisome  of  all  living 
men  suddenly  proved  himself  to  be  the  most  welcome  of  liv- 
ing men.  The  rector  appeared  in  the  garden  to  receive  his 
daughter  on  her  return.  Infolded  in  Reverend  Finch's  pa- 
ternal embraces,  harangued  by  Reverend  Finch's  prodigious 
voice,  Lucilla  was  effectually  silenced — the  subject  was  inev- 
itably changed.  Oscar  drew  me  aside  out  of  hearing,  while 
her  attention  was  diverted  from  him. 

"I  saw  you  !"  he  said.     "You  were  horrified  at  the  first* 
sight  of  me.      You  were  relieved  when  you  found  that  her 
touch  told  her  nothing.     Help  me  to  keep  her  from  suspect- 
ing it  for  two  months  more — and  you  will  be  the  best  friend 
that  man  ever  had." 

"  Two  months  ?"  I  repeated. 

"  Yes.  If  there  is  no  return  of  the  fits  in  two  months,  the 
doctor  will  consider  my  recovery  complete.  Lucilla  and  I 
may  be  married  at  the  end  of  that  time." 

"  My  friend  Oscar,  are  you  contemplating  a  fraud  on  Lu- 
cilla?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Come  !  come  !  you  know  what  I  mean  !  Is  it  honorable 
first  to  entrap  her  into  marrying  you — and  then  to  confess 
to  her  the  color  of  your  face  ? 

He  sighed  bitterly. 

"I  shall  fill  her  with  horror  of  me  if  I  confess  it.  Look  at 
me !  look  at  me !"  he  said,  lifting  his  ghastly  hands  in  de- 
spair to  his  blue  face. 

I  was  determined  not  to  give  way — even  to  that. 

"  Be  a  man  !"  I  said.  "  Own  it  boldly.  What  is  she  going 
to  marry  you  for  ?  For  your  face  that  she  can  never  see  ? 
No !  For  your  heart  that  is  one  with  her  own.  Trust  to 
her  natural  good  sense — and,  better  than  that,  to  the  devoted 
love  that  you  have  inspired  in  her.  She  will  see  her  stupid 


138  POOK    MISS    FINCH. 

prejudice  in  its  true  light  when  she  feels  it  trying  to  part  her 
from  yoM." 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !  Remember  her  letter  to  her  father.  I 
shall  lose  her  forever  if  I  tell  her  now." 

I  took  his  arm,  and  tried  to  lead  him  to  Lucilla.  She  was 
already  trying  to  escape  from  her  father;  she  was  already 
longing  to  hear  the  sound  of  Oscar's  voice  again. 

He  obstinately  shrank  back.  I  began  to  feel  angry  with 
him.  In  another  moment  I  should  have  said  or  done  some- 
thing that  I  might  have  repented  of  afterward  if  a  new  inter- 
ruption had  not  happened  before  I  could  open  my  lips. 

Another  person  appeared  in  the  garden — the  man-servant 
from  Browndown,  with  a  letter  for  his  master  in  his  hand. 

"  This  has  just  come,  Sir,"  said  the  man,  "  by  the  afternoon 
post.  It  is  marked  '  Immediate.'  I  thought  I  had  better 
bring  it  to  you  here." 

Oscar  took  the  letter  and  looked  at  the  address.  "  My 
brother's  writing  !"  he  exclaimed.  "A  letter  from  Nugent !" 

He  opened  the  letter,  and  burst  out  with  a  cry  of  joy  which 
brought  Lucilla  instantly  to  his  side. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Nugent  is  coming  back !  Nugent  will  be  here  in  a 
week  !  Oh,  Lucilla,  my  brother  is  coming  to  stay  with  me 
at  Browndown  !" 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  in  the  first  rapt- 
ure of  receiving  that  welcome  news.  She  forced  herself 
away  from  him  without  answering  a  word.  She  turned  her 
poor  blind  face  round  and  round,  in  search  for  me. 

"  Here  I  am  !"  I  said. 

She  roughly  and  angrily  put  her  arm  in  mine.  I  saw  the 
jealous  misery  in  her  face  as  she  dragged  me  away  with  her 
to  the  house.  Never  yet  had  Oscar's  voice,  in  her  experience 
of  him,  sounded  the  note  of  happiness  that  she  heard  in  it 
now  !  Never  yet  had  she  felt  Oscar's  heart  on  Oscar's  lips 
as  she  felt  it  when  he  kissed  her  in  the  first  joy  of  anticipat- 
ing Nugent's  return  ! 

"  Can  he  hear  me  ?"  she  whispered,  when  we  had  left  the 
lawn,  and  she  felt  the  gravel  under  her  feet. 

"  No.     What  is  it  ?"  9 

"  I  hate  his  brother  !" 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  139 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-SECOND. 

THE  TWIN  BROTHER'S  LETTER. 

LITTLE  thinking  what  a  storm  he  had  raised,  poor  inno- 
cent Oscar — paternally  escorted  by  the  rector — followed  us 
into  the  house,  with  his  open  letter  in  his  hand. 

Judging  by  certain  signs  visible  in  my  reverend  friend,  I 
concluded  that  the  announcement  of  Nugent  Dubourg's  corn- 

»~  o 

ing  visit  to  Dimchurch — regarded  by  the  rest  of  us  as  her- 
alding the  appearance  of  a  twin  brother — was  regarded  l>y 
Mr.  Finch  as  promising  the  arrival  of  a  twin  fortune.  Oscar 
and  Nugent  shared  the  comfortable  paternal  inheritance. 
Finch  smelled  money. 

"  Compose  yourself,"  I  whispered  to  Lucilla  as  the  two 
gentlemen  followed  us  into  the  sitting-room.  "  Your  jeal- 
ousy of  his  brother  is  a  childish  jealousy.  There  is  room 
enough  in  his  heart  for  his  brother  as  well  as  for  you." 

She  only  repeated,  obstinately,  with  a  vicious  pinch  on  my 
arm,  "  I  hate  his  brother !" 

"  Come  and  sit  down  by  me,"  said  Oscar,  approaching  her 
on  the  other  side.  "  I  want  to  run  over  Nugent's  letter.  It's 
so  interesting  !  There  is  a  message  in  it  to  you."  Too 
deeply  absorbed  in  his  subject  to  notice  the  sullen  submission 
with  which  she  listened  to  him,  he  placed  her  on  a  chair,  and 
began  reading.  "The  first  lines,"  he  explained,  "  relate  to 
Nugent's  return  to  England,  and  to  his  delightful  idea  of 
coming  to  stay  with  me  at  Browndown.  Then  he  goes  on  : 
'  I  found  all  your  letters  waiting  for  me  on  my  return  to 
New  York.  Need  I  tell  you,  my  dearest  brother — 

Lucilla  stopped  him  at  those  words  by  rising  abruptly 
from  her  seat. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  like  this  chair  !" 

Oscar  got  her  another — an  easy-chair  this  time — and  re- 
turned to  the  letter. 

"  *  Need  I  tell  you,  my  dearest  brother,  how  deeply  you 
have  interested  me  by  the  announcement  of  your  contempla- 
ted marriage  ?  Your  happiness  is  my  happiness.  I  feel  with 


140  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

you ;  I  congratulate  you ;  I  long  to  see  my  future  sister-in- 
law—'  " 

Lucilla  got  up  again.  Oscar,  in  astonishment,  asked  what 
was  wrong  now. 

"  I  am«not  comfortable  at  this  end  of  the  room." 

She  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Patient  Oscar 
walked  after  her,  with  his  precious  letter  in  his  hand.  He 
offered  her  a  third  chair.  She  petulantly  declined  to  take 
it,  and  selected  another  chair  for  herself.  Oscar  returned 
to  the  letter : 

"  *  How  melancholy,  and  yet  how  interesting  it  is,  to  hear 
that  she  is  blind  !  My  sketches  of  American  scenery  hap- 
pened to  be  lying  about  in  the  room  when  I  read  your  letter. 
The  first  thought  that  came  to  me  on  hearing  of  Miss  Finch's 
affliction  was  suggested  by  my  sketches.  I  said  to  myself, 
"  Sad !  sad  !  my  sister-in-law  will  never  see  my  Works." 
The  true  artist,  Oscar,  is  always  thinking  of  his  Works.  I 
shall  bring  back,  let  me  tell  you,  some  very  remarkable  stud- 
ies for  future  pictures.  They  will  not  be  so  numerous,  per- 
haps, as  you  may  expect.  I  prefer  to  trust  to  my  intellectu- 
al perception  of  beauty  rather  than  to  mere  laborious  tran- 
scripts from  Nature.  In  certain  moods  of  mine  (speaking  as 
an  artist)  Nature  puts  me  out.'  r  There  Oscar  paused,  and 
appealed  to  me.  "  What  writing  ! — eh?  I  always  told  you, 
Madame  Pratolungo,  that  Nugent  was  a  genius.  You  see  it 
now !  Don't  get  up,  Lucilla.  I  am  going  on.  There  is  a 
message  to  you  in  this  part  of  the  letter.  So  neatly  ex- 
pressed !" 

Lucilla  persisted  in  getting  up  ;  the  announcement  of  the 
neatly  expressed  message  to  be  read  next  produced  no  effect 
on  her.  She  walked  to  the  window,  and  trifled  impatiently 
with  the  flowers  placed  in  it.  Oscar  looked  in  mild  astonish- 
ment, first  at  me,  then  at  the  rector.  Reverend  Finch — list- 
ening thus  far  with  the  complimentary  attention  due  to  the 
correspondence  of  one  young  man  of  fortune  with  another 
young  man  of  fortune — interfered  in  Oscar's  interests  to  se- 
cure him  a  patient  hearing. 

"  My  dear  Lucilla,  endeavor  to  control  your  restlessness. 
You  interfere  with  our  enjoyment  of  this  interesting  letter. 
I  could  wish  to  see  fewer  changes  of  place,  my  child,  and  a 
move  undivided  attention  <c  what  Oscar  is  reading  to  you." 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  141 

"  I  am  not  interested  in  what  he  is  reading  to  me."  In  the 
nervous  irritation  which  produced  this  ungracious  answer  she 
overthrew  one  of  the  flower-pots.  Oscar  set  it  up  again  for 
her  with  undimiiushed  good  temper. 

"  Not  interested  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Wait  a  little.  You 
haven't  heard  Nugent's  message  yet.  Listen  to  this  !  '  Pre- 
sent my  best  and  kindest  regards  to  the  future  Mrs.  Oscar' 
(dear  fellow  !),'  and  say  that  she  has  given  me  a  new  interest 
in  hastening  my  return  to  England.'  There  !  Isn't  that 
prettily  put  ?  Come,  Lucilla !  own  that  Nugent  is  worth 
listening  to  when  he  writes  about  you  /" 

She  turned  toward  him  for  the  first  time.  The  charm  of 
the  tone  in  which  he  spoke  those  words  subdued  her  in  spite 
of  herself. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  your  brother,"  she  answered,  gen-' 
tly,  "  and  very  much  ashamed  of  myself  lor  what  I  said  just 
now."  She  stole  her  hand  into  his,  :wid  whispered,  "  You 
are  so  fond  of  Nugent,  I  begin  to  be  almost  afraid  there  will 
be  no  love  left  for  me." 

Oscar  was  enchanted.  "Wait  till  you  see  him,  and  you 
will  be  as  fond  of  him  as  I  am,"  he  said.  "Nugent  is  not 
like  me.  He  fascinates  people  the  moment  they  come  in  con- 
tact with  him.  Nobody  can  resist  Nugent." 

She  still  held  his  hand,  with  a  perplexed  and  saddened 
face.  The  admirable  absence  of  any  jealousy  on  his  side — 
his  large  and  generous  confidence  in  her  love  for  him — was 

O  O 

just  the  rebuke  to  her  that  she  could  feel ;  just  the  rebuke, 
also  (in  my  opinion),  that  she  had  deserved. 

"  Go  on,  Oscar,"  said  the  rector,  in  his  deepest  notes  of  en- 
couragement. "  What  next,  dear  boy  ?  what  next  ?" 

"  Another  interesting  bit,  of  quite  a  new  kind,"  Oscar  re- 
plied. "There  is  a  little  mystery  to  stir  us  up  on  the  last 
page  of  the  letter.  Nugent  says  :  '  I  have  become  acquaint- 
ed (here,  in  New  York)  with  a  very  remarkable  man,  a  Ger- 
man who  has  made  a  great  deal  of  money  in  the  United 
States.  He  proposes  to  visit  England  early  in  the  present 
year ;  and  he  will  write  and  let  me  know  when  he  has  ar- 
rived. I  shall  feel  particular  pleasure  in  presenting  him  to 
you  and  your  future  wife.  It  is  quite  possible  that  you  may 
have  special  reason  to  congratulate  yourselves  on  making  his 
acquaintance1.  For  the  present  no  more  of  my  new  friend 


142  POOK    MISS    FINCH. 

until  we  meet  at  Browndown.' — '  Special  reason  to  congratu- 
late ourselves  on  making  his  acquaintance  !' "  repeated  Oscar, 
folding  up  the  letter.  "Nugent  never  writes  in  that  way 
without  a  reason  for  it.  Who  can  the  German  gentleman 
be?" 

Mr.  Finch  suddenly  lifted  his  head,  and  looked  at  Oscar 
with  a  certain  appearance  of  alarm. 

"  Your  brother  mentions  that  he  has  made  his  fortune  in 
America,"  said  the  reverend  gentleman.  "  I  hope  he  is  not 
connected  with  the  money  market !  He  might  infect  Mr. 
Nugent  with  the  spirit  of  reckless  speculation  which  is, 
so  to  speak,  the  national  sin  of  the  United  States.  Your 
brother,  having  no  doubt  the  same  generous  disposition  as 
yours — 

"  A  far  finer  disposition  than  mine,  Mr.  Finch,"  interposed 
Oscar. 

"  Possessed,  like  you,  of  the  gifts  of  fortune,"  proceeded 
the  rector,  with  mounting  enthusiasm. 

"  Once  possessed  of  them,"  said  Oscar.  "  Far  from  being 
overburdened  with  the  gifts  of  fortune  now  !" 

"  What! !!"  cried  Mr.  Finch,  with-  a  start  of  consternation. 
"  Nugent  has  run  through  his  fortune,"  proceeded  Oscar, 
quite  composedly.  "  I  lent  him  the  money  to  go  to  America. 
My  brother  is  a  genius,  Mr.  Finch.  When  did  you  ever  hear 
of  a  genius  who  could  keep  within  limits?  Nugent  is  not 
content  to  live  in  my  humble  way.  He  has  the  tastes  of  a 
prince — money  is  nothing  to  him.  It  doesn't  matter.  He' 
will  make  a  new  fortune  out  of  his  pictures ;  and,  in  the 
mean  time,  you  know,  I  can  always  lend  him  something  to  go 
on  with." 

Mr.  Finch  rose  from  his  seat  with  the  air  of  a  man  whose 
just  anticipations  have  not  been  realized — whose  innocent 
confidence  has  been  scandalously  betrayed.  Here  was  a  pros- 
pect !  Another  person  in  perpetual  want  of  money  going  to 
settle  under  the  shadow  of  the  rectory  ?  Another  man  like- 
ly to  borrow  of  Oscar — and  that  man  his  brother  ! 

"  I  fail  to  take  your  light  view  of  your  brother's  extrava- 
gance," said  the  rector,  addressing  Oscar  with  his  loftiest  se- 
verity of  manner,  at  the  door.  "  I  deplore  and  reprehend 
Mr.  Nugent's  misuse  of  the  bounty  bestowed  on  him  by  an 
all-wise  Providence.  You  will  do  well  to  consider  before 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  143 

you  encourage  your  brother's  extravagance  by  lending  him 
money.  What  does  the  great  poet  of  humanity  say  of  lend- 
ers? The  Bard  of  Avon  tells  us  that  '  loan  oft  loses  both  it- 
self and  friend.'  Lay  that  noble  line  to  heart,  Oscar !  Lu- 
cilla,  be  on  your  guard  against  that  restlessness  which  I  have 
already  had  occasion  to  reprove.  I  find  I  must  leave  you, 
Madame  Pratolungo.  I  had  forgotten  my  parish  duties.  My 
parish  duties  are  waiting  for  me.  Good-day  !  good-day  !" 

He  looked  round  on  us  all  three,  in  turn,  with  a  very  sour 
face,  and  walked  out.  "  Surely,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "  this 
brother  of  Oscar's  is  not  beginning  well !  First  the  daughter 
takes  offense  at  him,  and  now  the  father  follows  her  example. 
Even  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg 
exercises  a  malignant  influence,  and  disturbs  the  family  tran- 
quillity before  he  has  shown  his  nose  in  the  house !" 

Nothing  more  that  is  worth  recording  happened  on  that 
day.  We  had  a  very  dull  evening.  Lucilla  was  out  of  spirits. 
As  for  me,  I  had  not  yet  had  time  to  accustom  myself  to  the 
shocking  spectacle  of  Oscar's  discolored  face.  I  was  serious 
and  silent.  You  Avould  never  have  guessed  me  to  be  a 
Frenchwoman,  if  you  had  seen  me  for  the  first  time  on  the 
occasion  of  my  return  to  the  rectory. 

The  next  day  a  small  domestic  event  happened  which  must 
be  chronicled  in  this  place. 

Our  Dimchurch  doctor,  always  dissatisfied  with  his  posi- 
tion in  an  obscure  country  place,  had  obtained  an  appoint- 
ment in  India  which  offered  great  professional  advantages  to 
an  ambitious  man.  He  called  to  take  leave  of  us  on  his  de- 
parture. I  found  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  him  about 
Oscar.  He  entirely  agreed  with  me  that  the  attempt  to  keep 
the  change  produced  in  his  former  patient  by  the  Nitrate 
of  Silver  from  Lucilla's  knowledge  was  simply  absurd.  It 
would  come  to  her  ears,  he  said,  before  many  days  were  over 
our  heads.  With  that  prediction,  addressed  to  my  private 
car,  he  left  us.  The  removal  of  him  from  the  scene  was,  you 
will  please  to  bear  in  mind,  the  removal  of  an  important  local 
witness  to  the  medical  treatment  of  Oscar,  and  was,  as  such, 
an  incident  with  a  bearing  of  its  own  on  the  future,  which 
claims  a  place  for  it  in  the  present  narrative. 

Two  more  days  passed,  and  nothing  happened.     On  the 


144  TOOK    MISS    FINCH. 

morning  of  tlio  third  day  the  doctor's  prophecy  was  all  but 
fulfilled  through  the  medium  of  the  wandering  Arab  of  the 
family,  our  funny"  little  Jicks. 

While  Lucilla  and  I  were  strolling  about  the  garden  with 

o  o 

Oscar,  the  child  suddenly  darted  out  on  us  from  behind  a 
tree,  and,  seizing  Oscar  round  the  legs,  hailed  him  affection- 
ately at  the  top  of  her  voice  as  "The  Blue  Man!"  Lucilla 
instantly  stopped,  and  said, "  Who  do  you  call  'The  Blue 
Man?'"  Jicks  answered,  boldly,  "  Oscar."  Lucilla  caught 
the  child  up  in  her  arms.  "Why  do  you  call  Oscar  ' The 
Blue  Man?'"  she  asked.  Jicks  pointed  to  Oscar's  face,  and 
then,  remembering  Lucilla's  blindness,  appealed  to  me.  "You 
tell  her,"  said  Jicks,  in  high  glee.  Oscar  seized  my  hand, 
and  looked  at  me  imploringly.  I  determined  not  to  inter- 
fere. It  was  bad  enough  to  remain  passive,  and  to  let  her 
be  kept  in  the  dark  Actively,  I  was  resolved  to  take  no 
part  in  deceiving  her.  Her  color  rose ;  she  put  Jicks  down 
on  the  ground.  "Are  you  both  dumb?"  she  asked.  "Os- 
car, I  insist  on  knowing  it — how  have  you  got  the  nickname 
of  '  The  Blue  Man  ?' "  Left  helpless,  Oscar  (to  my  disgust) 
took  refuge  in  a  lie — and,  worse  still,  a  clumsy  lie.  He  de- 
clared that  he  had  got  his  nickname  in  the  nursery,  at  the 
time  of  Lucilla's  absence  in  London,  by  one  day  painting  his 
face  in  the  character  of  Blue-beard  to  amuse  the  children ! 
If  Lucilla  had  felt  the  faintest  suspicion  of  the  truth,  blind  as 
she  was,  she  must  now  have  discovered  it.  As  tilings  were, 
Oscar  annoyed  and  irritated  her.  I  could  see  that  it  cost 
her  a  struggle  to  suppress  something  like  a  feeling  of  con- 
tempt for  him.  "  Amuse  the  children,  the  next  time,  in  some 
other  way,"  she  said.  "  Though  I  can't  see  you,  still  I  don't 
like  to  hear  of  your  disfiguring  your  face  by  painting  it  blue." 
With  that  answer  she  walked  away  a  little  by  herself,  evi- 
dently disappointed  in  her  betrothed  husband  for  the  first 
time  in  her  experience  of  him. 

He  cast  another  imploring  look  at  me.  "Did  you  hear 
what  she  said  about  my  face  ?"  he  whispered. 

"You  have  lost  an  excellent  opportunity  of  speaking  out," 
I  answered.  "  I  believe  you  will  bitterly  regret  the  folly  and 
the  cruelty  of  deceiving  her." 

He  shook  his  head,  with  the  immovable  obstinacy  of  & 
weak  man. 


POOK    MISS    FINCH.  145 

"Nugent  doesn't  think  as  you  do,"  he  said,  handing  me 
the  letter.  "  Read  that  bit  there — now  Lucilla  is  out  of 
hearing." 

I  paused  for  a  moment  before  I  could  read.  The  resem- 
blance between  the  twins  extended  even  to  their  handwrit- 
ings !  If  I  had  picked  Nugent's  letter  up,  I  should  have 
handed  it  to  Oscar  as  a  letter  of  Oscar's  own  writing. 

O 

The  paragraph  to  which  he  pointed  only  contained  these 
lines:  "Your  last  relieves  my  anxiety  about  your  health. 
I  entirely  agree 'with  you  that  any  personal  sacrifice  which 
cures  you  of  those  horrible  attacks  is  a  sacrifice  wisely  made. 
As  to  your  keeping  the  change  a  secret  from  the  young  lady, 
I  can  only  say  I  suppose  you  know  best  how  to  act  in  this 
emergency.  I  will  abstain  from  forming  any  opinion  of  my 
own  until  we  meet." 

I  handed  Oscar  back  the  letter. 

"There  is  no  very  warm  approval  there  of  the  course  you 
are  taking,"  I  said.  "  The  only  difference  between  your 
brother  and  me  is  that  he  suspends  his  opinion,  and  that  I 
express  mine." 

"I  have  no  fear  of  my  brother."  Oscar  answered.  "Nu- 
gent will  feel  for  me  and  understand  me  when  he  comes  to 
Browndown.  In  the  mean  time  this  shall  not  happen  again." 

He  stooped  over  Jicks.  The  child,  while  \ve  were  talking, 
had  laid  herself  down  luxuriously  on  the  grass,  and  was  sing- 
ing to  herself  little  snatches  of  a  nursery  song.  Oscar  pull- 
ed her  up  on  her  legs  rather  roughly.  He  was  out  of  temper 
with  her,  as  well  as  with  himself. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  am  going  to  see  Mr.  Finch,"  he  answered,  "and  to  have 
Jicks  kept  for  the  future  out  of  Lucilla's  garden." 

"Does  Mr.  Finch  approve  of  your  silence?" 

"  Mr.  Finch,  Madame  Pratolungo,  leaves  me  to  decide  on  a 
matter  which  concerns  nobody  but  Lucilla  and  myself." 

After  that  reply  there  was  an  end  of  all  further  remon- 
strance from  me,  as  a  matter  of  course.  Oscar  walked  off 
with  his  prisoner  to  the  house.  Jicks  trotted  along  by  his 
side,  unconscious  of  the  mischief  she  had  done,  singing  an- 
other verse  of  the  nursery  song.  I  rejoined  Lucilla,  with  my 
mind  made  up  as  to  the  line  of  conduct  I  should  adopt  in  the 
future.  If  Oscar  did  succeed  in  keeping  the  truth  concealed 

G 


14C  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

from  her,  I  was  positively  resolved,  come  what  might  of  it,  to 
enlighten  her,  before  they  were  married,  with  my  own  lips. 
What !  after  pledging  myself  to  keep  the  secret  ?  Yes.  Per- 
ish the  promise  that  makes  me  false  to  a  person  whom  I 
love  !  I  despise  such  promises  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 
Two  more  days  slipped  by — and  then  a  telegram  found  its 
way  to  Browndown.  Oscar  came  running  to  us,  at  the  rec- 
tory, with  his  news.  Nugent  had  landed  at  Liverpool.  Os- 
car was  to  expect  him  at  Dimchurch  on  the  next  day. 


CHAPTER  TFIE  TWENTY-THIRD. 

HE    SETS    US    ALT,    EIGHT. 

I  HAVE  thus  far  quite  inadvertently  omitted  to  mention  one 
of  the  prominent  virtues  of  Reverend  Finch.  He  was  an  ac- 
complished master  of  that  particular  form  of  human  persecu- 
tion which  is  called  reading  aloud;  and  he  inflicted  his  accom- 
plishment on  his  family  circle  at  every  available  opportunity. 
Of  what  we  suffered  on  these  occasions  I  shall  say  nothing. 
Let  it  be  enough  to  mention  that  the  rector  thoroughly  en- 
joyed the  pleasure  of  hearing  his  own  magnificent  voice. 

There  was  no  escaping  Mr.  Finch  when  the  rage  for  "  read- 
ing" seized  on  him.  Now  on  one  pretense,  and  now  on  an- 
other, he  descended  on  us  unfortunate  women,  book  in  hand, 
seated  us  at  one  end  of  the  room,  placed  himself  at  the  other, 
opened  his  dreadful  mouth,  and  fired  words  at  us,  like  shots 
at  a  target,  by  the  hour  together.  Sometimes  he  gave  us 
poetical  readings  from  Shakspeare  or  Milton  ;  and  sometimes 
Parliamentary  speeches  by  Burke  or  Sheridan.  Read  what 
he  might,  he  made  such  a  noise  and  such  a  fuss  over  it — he 
put  his  own  individuality  so  prominently  in  the  foremost 
place,  and  lie  kept  the  poets  or  the  orators  whom  he  was  sup- 
posed to  be  interpreting  so  far  in  the  background — that  they 
lost  every  trace  of  character  of  their  own,  and  became  one 
and  all  perfectly  intolerable  reflections  of  Mr.  Finch.  I  date 
my  first  unhappy  doubts  of  the  supreme  excellence  of  Shak- 
speare's  poetry  from  the  rector's  readings;  and  I  attribute 
to  the  same  exasperating  cause  my  implacable  hostility  (on 
every  question  of  the  time)  to  the  policy  of  Mr.  Burke. 

On  the  evening  when  Nugent  Duboiirg  was  expected  at 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  147 

Browndown —  and  when  we  particularly  wanted  to  be  left 
alone  to  dress  ourselves,  and  to  gossip  by  anticipation  about 
the  expected  visitor — Mr.  Finch  was  seized  with  one  of  his 
periodical  rages  for  firing  off*  words  at  his  family  after  tea. 
He  selected  "Hamlet"  as  the  medium  for  exhibiting  his 
voice  on  this  occasion;  and  he  declared,  as  the  principal  mo- 
tive for  taking  his  elocutionary  exercise,  that  the  object  he 
especially  had  in  view  was  the  benefit  of  poor  Me. 

"My  good  creature,  I  accidentally  heard  you  reading  to 
Lucilla  the  other  day.  It  was  very  nice,  as  far  as  it  went — 
very  nice  indeed.  But  you  will  allow  me — as  a  person,  Mad- 
ame Pratolungo,  possessing  considerable  practice  in  the  art 
of  reading  aloud — to  observe  that  you  might  be  benefited 
by  a  hint  or  two.  I  will  give  you  a  lew  ideas.  (Mrs.  Finch  ! 
I  propose  giving  Madame  Pratolungo  a  few  ideas.)  Pay  par- 
ticular attention,  if  you  please,  to  the  Pauses,  and  to  the 
management  of  the  Voice  at  the  end  of  the  lines.  Lucilla, 
my  child,  you  are  interested  in  this.  The  perfecting  of  Mad- 
ame Pratolungo  is  a  matter  of  considerable  importance  to 
you.  Don't  go  away." 

Lucilla  and  I  happened,  on  that  evening,  to  be-  guests  at 
the  rectory  table.  It  was  one  of  the  regular  occasions  on 
which  we  left  our  own  side  of  the  house,  and  joined  the  fam- 
ily at  (what  Mr.  Finch  called)  "the  pastor's  evening  meal." 
He  had  got  his  wife;  he  had  got  his  eldest  daughter;  he  had 
got  your  humble  servant.  A  horrid  smile  of  enjoyment  over- 
spread the  reverend  gentleman's  face  as  he  surveyed  us  from 
the  opposite  end  of  the  room,  and  opened  his  vocal  fire  on  his 
audience  of  three. 

"'Hamlet :' Act  the  First;  Scene  the  First.  Elsinore.  A 
Platform  before  the  Castle.  Francisco  on  his  post "  (Mr. 
Finch).  "Enter  to  him  Bernardo"  (Mr.  Finch).  "Who's 
there?"  "Nay.  answer  me:  stand,  and  unfold  yourself." 
(Mrs.  Finch  unfolds  herself- — she  suckles  the  baby,  and  tries 
to  look  as  if  she  was  having  an  intellectual  treat).  Fran- 
cisco and  Bernardo  converse  in  bass  —  Boom -boom -boom. 
"Enter  Horatio  and  Marcellus  "  (Mr.  Finch  and  Mr.  Finch). 
"Stand,  ho!  Who  is  there?"  "Friends  to  this  ground." 
"And  liegemen  to  the  Dane."  (Madame  Pratolungo  begins 
to  feel  the  elocutionary  exposition  of  Shakspeare,  where  she 
always  feels  it,  in  her  legs.  She  tries  to  sit  still  on  her  chair. 


148  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

Useless !  She  is  suffering  under  the  malady  known  to  her 
by  bitter  expeiience  of  Mr.  Finch,  as  the  Hamlet-Fidgets.) 
Bernardo  and  Francisco,  Horatio  and  Marcellus,  converse — 
Boom-boom-boom.  "Enter  Ghost  of  Hamlet's  Father."  Mr. 
Finch  makes  an  awful  pause.  In  the  supernatural  silence 
we  can  hear  the  baby  sucking.  Mrs.  Finch  enjoys  her  intel- 
lectual treat.  Madame  Pratolungo  fidgets.  Lucilla  catches 
the  infection,  and  fidgets  too.  Marcellus -Finch  goes  on. 
"Thou  art  a  scholar,  speak  to  it,  Horatio."  Bernardo-Finch 
backs  him:  '"Looks  it  not  like  the  King?  Mark  it,  Hora- 
tio." Lucilla-Finch  inserts  herself  in  the  dialogue:  "Papa, 
I  am  very  sorry ;  I  have  had  a  nervous  headache  all  day ; 
please  excuse  me  if  I  take  a  turn  in  the  garden."  The  rec- 
tor makes  another  awful  pause,  and  glares  at  his  daughter. 
(Exit  Lucilla.)  Horatio  looks  at  the  Ghost,  and  takes  up  the 
dialogue :  "  Most  like  ;  it  harrows  me  " — Boom-boom-boom. 
The  baby  is  satiated.  Mrs.  Finch  wants  her  handkerchief. 
Madame  Pratolungo  seizes  the  opportunity  of  moving  her 
distracted  legs,  and  finds  the  handkerchief.  Mr.  Finch  pauses 
— glares — goes  on  again — reaches  the  second  scene.  "  Enter 
the  King,  Queen,  Hamlet,  Polonius,  Laertes,  Voltimand,  Cor- 
nelius, and  Lords  Attendant."  All  Mr.  Finch  !  Oh,  my  legs  ! 
my  legs  !  all  Mr.  Finch,  and  Boom-boom-boom.  Third  scene. 
"  Enter  Laertes  and  Ophelia."  (Both  Rectors  of  Dimchurch  ; 
both  with  deep  bass  voices;  both  about  five  feet  high,  pitted 
with  the  small-pox,  and  adorned  around  the  neck  with  dingy 
white  cravats.)  Mr.  Finch  goes  on  and  on  and  on.  Mrs. 
Finch  and  the  baby  simultaneously  close  their  eyes  in  slum- 
ber. Madame  Pratolungo  suffers  such  tortures  of  restless- 
ness in  her  lower  limbs  that  she  longs  for  a  skilled  surgeon 

O  O 

to  take  out  his  knife  and  deliver  her  from  her  own  legs.  Mr. 
Finch  advances  in  deeper  and  deeper  bass,  in  keener  and 
keener  enjoyment,  to  the  Fourth  Scene.  ("Enter  Hamlet, 
Horatio,  and  Marcellus.")  Mercy  !  what  do  I  hear  !  Is  re- 
lief approaching  to  us  from  the  world  outside?  Are  there 
footsteps  in  the  hall  ?  Yes !  Mrs.  Finch  opens  her  eyes ; 
Mrs.  Finch  hears  the  footsteps,  and  rejoices  in  them  as  I  do. 
Reverend  Hamlet  hears  nothing  but  his  own  voice.  He  be- 
gins the  scene:  "The  air  bites  shrewdly;  it  is  very  cold." 
The  door  opens.  The  rector  feels  a  gust  of  air,  dramatically 
appropriate,  just  at  the  right  moment.  He  looks  round.  If 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  149 

it  is  a  servant,  let  that  domestic  person  tremble !  No — not 
a  servant.  Guests — heavens  be  praised,  guests.  Welcome, 
gentlemen — welcome  !  No  more  "Hamlet"  to-night,  thanks 
to  You.  Enter  two  Characters  who  must  be  instantly  at- 
tended to — Mr.  Oscar  Dubourg,  introducing  his  twin  broth- 
er from  America,  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg. 

Astonishment  at  the  extraordinary  resemblance  between 
them  was  the  one  impression  felt  by  all  three  of  us  as  the 
brothers  entered  the  room. 

Exactly  alike  in  their  height,  in  their  walk,  in  their  feat- 
ures, and  in  their  voices.  Both  with  the  same  colored  hair 
and  the  same  beardless  faces.  Oscar's  smile  exactly  reflect- 
ed on  Nugent's  lips.  Oscar's  odd  little  semi-foreign  tricks 
of  gesticulation  with  his  hands,  exactly  reproduced  in  the 
hands  of  Nugent.  And,  to  crown  it  all,  there  was  the  com- 
plexion which  Oscar  had  lost  forever  (just  a  shade  darker 
perhaps)  found  again  on  Nugeut's  cheeks  !  The  one  differ- 
ence which  made  it  possible  to  distinguish  between  them,  at 
the  moment  when  they  first  appeared  together  in  the  room, 
was  also  the  one  difference  which  Lucilla  was  physically  in- 
capable of  detecting — the  terrible  contrast  of  color  between 
the  brother  who  bore  the  blue  disfigurement  of  the  drug,  and 
the  brother  who  was  left  as  Nature  had  made  him. 

"Delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Finch.  I 
have  long  wished  for  this  pleasure.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Finch, 
for  all  your  kindness  to  my  brother.  Madame  Pratolungo,  I 
presume?  Permit  me  to  shake  hands.  It  is  needless  to  say 
I  have  heard  of  your  illustrious  husband.  Aha !  here's  a 
baby.  Yours,  Mrs.  Finch?  Girl  or  boy,  ma'am?  A  fine 
child — if  a  bachelor  may  be  allowed  to  pronounce  an  opin- 
ion. Tweet — tweet — tweet!" 

He  chirruped  to  the  baby  as  if  he  had  been  a  family  man, 
and  snapped  his  fingers  gayly.  Poor  Oscar's  blue  face  turn- 
ed in  silent  triumph  toward  me.  "What  did  I  tell  you?" 
his  look  asked.  "Did  I  not  say  Nugent  fascinated  every 
body  at  first  sight?"  Most  true.  An  irresistible  man.  So 
utterly  different  in  his  manner  from  Oscar,  except  when  he 
was  in  repose,  and  yet  so  like  Oscar  in  other  respects.  I  can 
only  describe  him  as  his  brother  completed.  He  had  the 
pleasant,  lively  flow  of  spirits,  the  i-asy,  winning,  gentleman- 


150  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

like  confidence  in  himself  which  Oscar  Avanted ;  find  then 
what  excellent  taste  he  possessed  !  He  liked  children  ;  he 
respected  the  memory  of  my  glorious  Pratolungo  !  In  half 
a  minute  from  the  time  when  he  entered  the  room,  Nugent 
Dubourg  had  won  Mrs.  Finch's  heart  and  mine. 

He  turned  from  the  baby  to  Mr.  Finch,  and  pointed  to  the 
open  Shakspeare  on  the  table. 

"You  were  reading  to  the  ladies?"  he  said.  "lam  afraid 
\ve  have  interrupted  you." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  the  rector,  with  his  loftiest  polite- 
ness. "  Another  time  will  do.  It  is  a  habit  of  mine,  Mr.  Nu- 
gent to  read  aloud  in  my  family  circle.  As  a  clergyman  and 
a  lover  of  poetry  (in  both  capacities)  I  have  long  cultivated 
the  art  of  elocution — 

"My  dear  Sir,  excuse  me:  you  have  cultivated  it  all 
wrong  !" 

Mr.  Finch  paused,  thunderstruck.  A  man  in  his  presence 
presuming  to  have  an  opinion  of  his  own !  a  man  in  the  rec- 
tory parlor  capable  of  interrupting  the  rector  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence  !  guilty  of  the  insane  audacity  of  telling  him, 
as  a  reader,  with  Shakspeare  open  before  them,  that  he  read 


wrong 


"  Oh,  we  heard  you  as  we  came  in !"  proceeded  Nugent, 
with  the  most  undiminished  confidence,  expressed  in  the 
most  gentleman-like  manner.  "You  read  it  like  this."  He 
took  up  "Hamlet,"  and  read  the  opening  line  of  the  Fourth 
Scene  ("The  air  bites  shrewdly;  it  is  very  cold")  with  an  ir- 
resistibly accurate  imitation  of  Mr.  Finch.  "That's  not  the 
way  Hamlet  would  speak.  No  man  in  his  position  would 
remark  that  it  was  very  cold  in  that  bow-wow  manner.  What 
is  Shakspeare  before  all  things?  True  to  nature — always 
true  to  nature.  What  condition  is  Hamlet  in  when  he  is  ex- 
pecting to  sec  the  Ghost  ?  He  is  nervous,  and  he  feels  the 
cold.  Let  him  show  it  naturally  ;  let  him  speak  as  any  other 
man  would  speak  under  the  circumstances.  Look  here ! 
Quick  and  quiet — like  this:  'The  air  bites  shrewdly' — there 
Hamlet  stops  and  shivers  —  pur-rer-rer!  'it  is  very  cold.' 
There !  That's  the  way  to  read  Shakspeare." 

Mr.  Finch  lifted  his  head  into  the  air  as  high  as  it  could 
possibly  go,  and  brought  the  flat  of  his  hand  down  with  a 
solemn  and  sounding  smack  on  the  open  book. 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  151 

"Allow  me  to  say,  Sir — "  he  began. 

Nugent  stopped  him  again,  more  goocl-humoredly  than 
ever. 

"You  don't  agree  with  me?  All  right.  Quite  useless  to 
dispute  about  it.  I  don't  know  what  you  may  be.  I  am 
the  most  opinionated  man  in  existence.  Sheer  waste  of  time, 
my  dear  Sir,  to  attempt  convincing  Me.  Now  just  look  at 
that  child !"  Here  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg's  attention  was 
suddenly  attracted  by  the  baby.  He  twisted  round  on  his 
heel,  and  addressed  Mrs.  Finch.  "  I  take  the  liberty  of 
saying,  ma'am,  that  a  more  senseless  dress  doesn't  exist  than 
the  dress  that  is  put  in  this  country  on  infants  of  tender 
years.  What  are  the  three  main  functions  which  that  child 
—  that  charming  child  of  yours  —  performs?  He  sucks,  lie 
sleeps,  and  he  grows.  At  the  present  moment  he  isn't  suck- 
ing, he  isn't  sleeping  —  he  is  growing  with  all  his  might. 
Under  those  interesting  circumstances  what  does  he  want  to 
do?  To  move  his  limbs  freely  in  every  direction.  You  let 
him  swing  his  arms  to  his  heart's  content,  and  you  deny  him 
freedom  to  kick  his  legs.  You  clothe  him  in  a  dress  three 
times  as  long  as  himself.  He  tries  to  throw  his  legs  up  in 
the  air  as  he  throws  his  arms,  and  he  can't  do  it.  There  is 
his  senseless  long  dress  entangling  itself  in  his  toes,  and 
making  an  effort  of  what  Nature  intended  to  be  a  luxury. 
Can  any  thing  be  more  absurd?  What  are  mothers  about? 
Why  don't  they  think  for  themselves?  Take  my  advice — 
short  petticoats,  Mrs.  Finch.  Liberty,  glorious  liberty,  for 
my  young  friend's  legs !  Room,  heaps  of  room,  for  that 
infant  martyr's  toes  !" 

Mrs.  Finch  listened  helplessly ;  lifted  the  baby's  long  pet- 
ticoats, and  looked  at  them;  stared  piteously  at  Nugent 
Dubourg ;  opened  her  lips  to  speak;  and,  thinking  better  of 
it,  turned  her  watery  eyes  on  her  husband,  appealing  to  him 
to  take  the  matter  up.  Mr.  Finch  made  another  attempt  to 
assert  his  dignity — a  ponderously  satirical  attempt  this  time. 

"In  offering  your  advice  to  my  wife,  Mr. Nugent," said  the 
rector,  "  you  must  permit  me  to  remark  that  it  would  have 
had  more  practical  force  if  it  had  been  the  advice  of  a  mar- 
ried man.  I  beg  to  remind  you — 

"  You  beg  to  remind  me  that  it  is  the  advice  of  a  bachelor? 
Oh,  come !  that  really  won't  do  at  this  time  of  day.  Dr. 


]52  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

Johnson  settled  that  argument  at  once  and  forever  a  centnry 
since.  'Sir,'  he  said  to  somebody  of  your  way  of  thinking, 
'you  may  scold  your  carpenter  when  lie  has  made  a  bad 
table,  though  you  can't  make  a  table  yourself.'  I  say  to 
you,  'Mr.  Finch,  you  may  point  out  a  defect  in  a  baby's  pet- 
ticoats, though  you  haven't  got  a  baby  yourself!'  Doesn't 
that  satisfy  you?  All  right.  Take  another  illustration. 
Look  at  your  room  here.  I  can  see  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  that  it's  badly  lit.  You  have  only  got  one  window ; 
you  ought  to  have  two.  Is  it  necessary  to  be  a  practical 
builder  to  discover  that?  Absurd!  Are  you  satisfied  now? 
No  !  Take  another  illustration.  What's  this  printed  paper 
here  on  the  chimney-piece?  Assessed  taxes.  Ha!  Assessed 
taxes  will  do.  You're  not  in  the  House  of  Commons;  you're 
not  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer;  but  haven't  you  an  opinion 
of  your  own  about  taxation  in  spite  of  that  ?  Must  you  and 
I  be  in  Parliament  before  we  can  presume  to  see  that  the 
feeble  old  British  Constitution  is  at  its  last  gasp?" 

"And  the  vigorous  young  Republic  drawing  its  first 
breath  of  life  !"  I  burst  in,  introducing  the  Pratolungo  pro- 
gramme (as  my  way  is)  at  every  available  opportunity. 

Nugent  Dubourg  instantly  wheeled  round  in  my  direction, 
and  set  me  right  on  my  subject,  just  as  he  had  set  the  rector 
right  on  reading  "Hamlet,"  and  Mrs.  Finch  right  on  clothing 
babies. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!"  he  pronounced,  positively.  "The 'young 
Republic'  is  the  rickety  child  of  the  political  family.  Give 
him  up,  ma'am.  You  will  never  make  a  man  of  him." 

I  tried  to  assert  myself  as  the  rector  had  tried  before  me 
— with  precisely  the  same  result.  I  appealed  indignantly 
to  the  authority  of  my  illustrious  husband. 

"Doctor  Pratolungo — "  I  began. 

"Was  an  honest  man,"  interposed  Nugent  Dubourg.  "I 
am  an  advanced  Liberal  myself;  I  respect  him.  But  he  was 
quite  wrong.  All  sincere  republicans  make  the  same  mis- 
take. They  believe  in  the  existence  of  public  spirit  in  Eu- 
rope. Amiable  delusion  !  Public  spirit  is  dead  in  Europe. 
Public  spirit  is  the  generous  emotion  of  young  nations,  of 
new  peoples.  In  selfish  old  Europe  private  interest  has 
taken  its  place.  When  your  husband  preached  the  republic, 
on  what  ground  did  he  put  it  ?  On  the  ground  that  the  re- 


1'OOR  MISS  FINCH.  153 

public  was  going  to  elevate  the  nation.  Pooh  !  Ask  me  to 
accept  the  republic  on  the  ground  that  I  elevate  Myself — 
and,  supposing  you  can  prove  it,  I  will  listen  to  you.  If  you 
are  ever  to  set  republican  institutions  going  in  the  Old 
World — there  is  the  only  motive  power  that  will  do  it!" 

I  was  indignant  at  such  sentiments.  "My  glorious  hus- 
band— "  I  began,  again. 

"Would  have  died  rather  than  appeal  to  the  meanest 
instincts  of  his  fellow-creatures.  Just  so !  There  was  his 
mistake.  That's  why  he  never  could  make  any  thipg  of  the 
republic.  That's  why  the  republic  is  the  rickety  child  of 
the  political  family.  Quod  erat  demonstrandum"  said  Nu- 
gent Dubourg,  finishing  me  off  with  a  pleasant  smile,  and  an 
easy  indicative  gesture  of  the  hand  which  said,  "Now  I  have 
settled  these  three  people  in  succession,  I  am  equally  well 
satisfied  with  myself — and  with  them  !" 

His  smile  was  irresistible.  Bent  as  I  was  on  disputing  the 
degrading  conclusions  at  which  he  had  arrived,  I  really  had 
not  fire  enough  in  me  at  the  moment  to  feed  my  own  indig- 
nation. As  to  Reverend  Finch,  he  sat  silently  swelling  in  a 
corner;  digesting  as  he  best  might  the  discovery  that  there 
was  another  man  in  the  world,  besides  the  Rector  of  Dim- 
church,  with  an  excellent  opinion  of  himself,  and  with  per- 
fectly unassailable  confidence  and  fluency  in  expressing  it. 
In  the  momentary  silence  that  now  followed,  Oscar  got  his 
first  opportunity  of  speaking.  He  had,  thus  far,  been  quite 
content  to  admire  his  clever  brother.  He  now  advanced  to 
me,  and  asked  what  had  become  of  Lucilla. 

"  The  servant  told  me  she  was  here,"  he  said.  "  I  am  so 
anxious  to  introduce  her  to  Nugent." 

Nugent  put  his  arm  affectionately  round  his  brother's 
neck,  and  gave  him  a  hug.  "Dear  old  boy!  I  am  just  as 
anxious  as  you  are." 

"Lucilla  went  out  a  little  while  since,"  I  said,  "to  take  a 
turn  in  the  garden." 

"I'll  go  and  find  her,"  said  Oscar.  "Wait  here,  Nugent. 
I'll  bring  her  in." 

lie  left  the  room.  Before  he  could  close  the  door  one  of 
the  servants  appeared,  to  claim  Mrs.  Finch's  private  ear  on 
some  mysterious  domestic  emergency.  Nugent  facetiously 
entreated  her,  as  she  passed  him,  to  clear  her  mind  of  preju- 

(i  -J 


154  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

dice,  and  consider  the  question  of  infant  petticoats  on  its 
own  merits.  Mr.  Finch  took  offense  at  this  second  reference 
to  the  subject.  He  rose  to  follow  his  wife. 

"  When  you  are  a  married  man,  Mr.  Dubourg,"  said  the 
rector,  severely,  "you  will  learn  to  leave  the  management  of 
an  infant  in  its  mother's  hands." 

"There's  another  mistake!"  remarked  Nugent,  following 
him,  with  unabated  good-humor,  to  the  door.  "  A  married 
man's  idea  of  another  man  as  a  husband,  always  begins  and 
ends  with  his  idea  of  himself."  He  turned  to  me  as  the  door 
closed  on  Mr.  Finch.  "Now  we  are  alone,  Madame  Prato- 
lungo,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  Miss  Finch. 
There  is  an  opportunity  before  she  comes  in.  Oscar's  letter 
only  told  me  that  she  was  blind.  I  am  naturally  interested 
in  every  thing  that  relates  to  my  brother's  future  wife.  I 
am  particularly  interested  about  this  affliction  of  hers.  May 
I  ask  how  long  she  has  been  blind?" 

"Since  she  was  a  year  old,"  I  replied. 

"Through  an  accident?" 

"No." 

"After  a  fever?  or  a  disease  of  any  other  sort?" 

I  began  to  feel  a  little  surprised  at  his  entering  into  these 
medical  details. 

"I  never  heard  that  it  was  through  a  fever  or  other  ill- 
ness," I  said.  "So  far  as  I  know,  the  blindness  came  on 
unexpectedly,  from  some  cause  that  did  not  express  itself  to 
the  people  about  her  at  the  time." 

He  drew  his  chair  confidentially  nearer  to  mine.  "How 
old  is  she  ?"  he  asked. 

I  began  to  feel  more  than  a  little  surprised,  and  I  showed 
it,  I  suppose,  on  telling  him  Lucilla's  age. 

"As  tilings  are  now,"  he  explained,  "  there  are  reasons 
which  make  me  hesitate  to  enter  on  the  question  of  Miss 
Finch's  blindness  either  with  my  brother  or  with  any  mem- 
bers of  the  family.  I  must  wait  to  speak  about  it  to  them 
until  I  can  speak  to  good  practical  purpose.  There  is  no 
harm  in  my  starting  the  subject  with  you.  When  she  first 
lost  her  sight,  no  means  of  restoring  it  were  left  untried,  of 
course  ?" 

"I  should  suppose  not,"  I  replied.  "It's  so  long  since,  I 
have  never  asked." 


POOR  MISS   FINCH.  155 

"  So  long  since,"  he  repeated ;  and  then  considered  for  a 
moment. 

His  reflections  ended  in  a  last  question : 

"  She  is  resigned,  I  suppose — and  every  body  about  her  is 
resigned — to  the  idea  of  her  being  hopelessly  blind  for  life?" 

Instead  of  answering  him,  I  put  a  question  on  my  side. 
My  heart  was  beginning  to  beat  rapidly,  without  my  know- 
ing why. 

"  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg,"  I  said,  "  what  have  you  got  in 
your  mind  about  Lucilla?" 

"  Madame  Pratolungo,"  he  replied,  "  I  have  got  something 
in  my  mind  which  was  put  into  it  by  a  friend  of  mine  whom 
I  met  in  America." 

"  The  friend  you  mentioned  in  your  letter  to  your  brother  ?" 

"The  same." 

"  The  German  gentleman  whom  you  propose  to  introduce 
to  Oscar  and  Lucilla?" 

"Yes." 

"May  I  ask  who  he  is?" 

Nugent  Dubourg  looked  at  me  attentively, considered  with 
himself  for  the  second  time,  and  answered  in  these  words : 

"  He  is  the  greatest  living  authority  and  the  greatest  liv- 
ing operator  in  diseases  of  the  eye." 

The  idea  in  his  mind  burst  its  way  into  my  mind  in  a 
moment. 

"  Gracious  God  !"  I  exclaimed ;  "  are  you  mad  enough  to 
suppose  that  Lucilla's  sight  can  be  restored,  after  a  blindness 
of  one-and-twcnty  years  ?" 

He  suddenly  held  up  his  hand,  in  sign  to  me  to  be  silent. 

At  the  same  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Lucilla  (follow- 
ed by  Oscar)  entered  the  room. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FOURTH. 

HE    SEES   LUCILLA. 

THE  first  impression  which  Poor  Miss  Finch  produced  on 
Nugent  Dubourg  was  precisely  the  same  as  the  first  impres- 
sion which  she  had  produced  on  me. 

"Good  Heavens!"  he  cried.  "The  Dresden  Madonna! 
The  Virgin  of  San  Sisto  !" 


156  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

Lucilla  had  already  heard  from  me  of  her  extraordinary 
resemblance  to  the  chief  figure  in  Raphael's  renowned  pic- 
ture. Nugent's  blunt  outburst  of  recognition  passed  unno- 
ticed by  her.  She  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
— startled,  the  instant  he  spoke,  by  the  extraordinary  simi- 
larity of  his  tone  and  accent  to  the  tone  and  accent  of  his 
brother's  voice. 

"  Oscar,"  she  asked,  nervously,  "  are  you  behind  me  ?  or 
in  front  of  me?"  Oscar  laughed,  and  answered  "Here!" — 
speaking  behind  her.  She  turned  her  head  toward  the  place 
in  front  of  her,  from  which  Nugent  had  spoken.  "Your 
voice  is  \vonderfully  like  Oscar's,"  she  said,  addressing  him 
timidly.  "Is  your  face  exactly  like  his  face  loo?  May  I 
judge  for  myself  of  the  likeness  between  you?  I  can  only 
do  it  in  one  way — by  my  touch." 

Oscar  advanced,  and  placed  a  chair  for  his  brother  by  Lu- 
cilla's  side. 

"She  has  eyes  in  the  tips  of  her  fingers,"  he  said.  "Sit 
down,  Nugent,  and  let  her  pass  her  hand  over  your  face." 

Nugent  obeyed  him  in  silence.  Now  that  the  first  im- 
pression of  surprise  had  passed  away,  I  observed  that  a 
marked  change  was  beginning  to  assert  itself  in  his  manner. 

Little  by  little,  an  unnatural  constraint  got  possession  of 
him.  His  fluent  tongue  found  nothing  to  talk  about.  His 
easy  movements  altered  in  the  strangest  way  until  they  al- 
most became  the  movements  of  a  slow,  awkward  man.  He 
was  more  like  his  brother  than  ever,  as  he  sat  down  in  the 
chair  to  submit  himself  to  Lucilla's  investigation.  She  had 
produced,  at  first  sight — as  well  as  I  could  judge — some  im- 
pression on  him  for  which  he  had  not  been  prepared ;  caus- 
ing some  mental  disturbance  in  him  which  he  was  for  the 
moment  quite  unable  to  control.  His  eyes  looked  up  at  her, 
spell-bound ;  his  color  came  and  went ;  his  breath  quickened 
audibly  when  her  fingers  touched  his  face. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Oscar,  looking  at  him  in  sur- 
prise. 

"Nothing  is  the  matter,"  he  answered,  in  the  low  absent 
tone  of  a  man  whose  mind  was  secretly  pursuing  its  own 
train  of  thought. 

Oscar  said  no  more.  Once,  twice,  three  times  Lucilla's 
hand  passed  slowly  over  Nugent's  face.  He  submitted  to  it 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  157 

silently,  gravely,  immovably — a  perfect  contrast  to  the  talk- 
ative, lively  young  man  of  half  an  hour  since.  Lucilla  em- 
ployed a  much  longer  time  in  examining  him  than  she  had 
occupied  in  examining  me. 

While  the  investigation  was  proceeding,  I  had  leisure  to 
think  again  over  what  had  passed  between  Nugent  and  me 
on  the  subject  of  Lucilla's  blindness  before  she  entered  the 
room.  J\Iy  mind  had  by  this  time  recovered  its  balance.  I 
was  able  to  ask  myself  what  this  young  fellow's  daring  idea 
was  really  worth.  "Was  it  within  the  range  of  possibility 
that  a  sense  so  delicate  as  the  sense  of  sight,  lost  for  one-and- 
twenty  years,  could  be  restored  by  any  means  short  of  a  mir- 
acle? It  was  monstrous  to  suppose  it:  the  thing  could  not 
be.  If  there  had  been  the  faintest  chance  of  giving  my  poor 
dear  back  the  blessing  of  sight,  that  chance  would  have  been 
tried  by  competent  persons  years  and  years  since.  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself  for  having  been  violently  excited  at  the 
moment  by  the  new  thought  which  Nugent  had  started  in 
my  mind ;  I  was  honestly  indignant  at  his  uselessly  disturb- 
ing me  with  the  vainest  of  all  vain  hopes.  The  one  wise 
thing  to  do  in  the  future  was  to  caution  this  flighty  and  in- 
consequent young  man  to  keep  his  mad  notion  about  Lucilla 
to  himself — and  to  dismiss  it  from  my  own  thoughts  at  once 
and  forever. 

Just  as  I  arrived  at  that  sensible  resolution,  I  was  recalled 
to  what  was  going  on  in  the  room  by  Lucilla's  voice,  ad- 
dressing me  by  my  name. 

"The  likeness  is  wonderful,"  she  said.  "Still,  I  think  I 
can  find  a  difference  between  them." 

(The  only  difference  between  them  was  in  the  contrast  of 
complexion  and  in  the  contrast  of  manner — both  these  being 
dissimilarities  which  appealed  more  or  less  directly  to  the 
eye.) 

"What  difference  do  you  find?"  I  asked. 

She  slowly  came  toward  me,  with  an  anxious,  perplexed 
face,  pondering  as  she  advanced. 

"I  can't  explain  it,"  *he  answered,  after  a  long  silence. 

When  Lucilla  left  him,  Nugent  rose  from  his  chair.  I'r 
abruptly  —  almost  roughly  —  took  his  brother's  hand,  lie 
spoke  to  his  brother  in  a  strangely  excited,  feverish,  head- 
long way. 


158  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

"My  dear  fellow,  now  I  have  seen  her,  I  congratulate  you 
more  heartily  than  ever.  She  is  charming;  she  is  unique. 
Oscar !  I  could  almost  envy  you,  if  you  were  any  one  else  !" 

Oscar  was  radiant  with  delight.  His  brother's  opinion 
ranked  above  all  human  opinions  in  his  estimation.  Before 
he  could  say  a  word  in  return,  Nugent  left  him  as  abruptly 
as  he  had  approached  him;  walking  away  by  himself  to  the 
window — and  standing  there,  looking  out. 

•Lucilla  had  not  heard  him.  She  was  still  pondering,  with 
the  same  perplexed  face.  The  likeness  between  the  twins 
was  apparently  weighing  on  her  mind — an  unsolved  prob- 
lem that  vexed  and  irritated  it.  Without  any  thing  said  by 
me  to  lead  to  resuming  the  subject,  she  returned  obstinately 
to  the  assertion  that  she  had  just  made. 

"I  tell  you  again  I  am  sensible  of  a  difference  between 
them,"  she  repeated  —  "though  you  don't  seem  to  believe 
me." 

I  interpreted  this  uneasy  reiteration  as  meaning  that  she 
was  rather  trying  to  convince  herself  than  to  convince  me. 
In  her  blind  condition  it  was  doubly  and  trebly  embarrassing 
not  to  know  one  brother  from  the  other.  I  understood  her 
unwillingness  to  acknowledge  this — I  felt  (in  her  position) 
how  it  would  have  irritated  me.  She  was  waiting — impa- 
tiently waiting — for  me  to  say  something  on  my  side.  I  am, 
as  you  know  already,  an  indiscreet  woman.  I  innocently 
said  one  of  my  rash  things. 

"I  believe  whatever  you  tell  me,  my  dear,"  I  answered. 
"You  can  find  out  a  difference  between  them,  I  have  no 
doubt.  Still,  I  own  I  should  like  to  see  it  put  to  the  proof." 

Her  color  rose.     "How?"  she  asked,  abruptly. 

"Try  your  touch  alternately  on  both  their  faces,"  I  sug- 
gested, "without  knowing  beforehand  which  position  they 
each  of  them  occupy.  Make  three  trials — leaving  them  to 
change  their  places  or  not,  between  each  trial,  just  as  they 
please.  If  you  guess  which  is  which  correctly  three  times 
following,  there  will  be  the  proof  that  you  can  really  lay 
your  hand  on  a  difference  between  them." 

Lucilla  shrank  from  accepting  the  challenge.  She  drew 
back  a  step,  and  silently  shook  her  head.  Nugent,  who  had 
overheard  me,  turned  round  suddenly  from  the  window,  and 
supported  my  proposal. 


PCOH    MISS    FINCH.  161 

"A  capitnl  notion!"  he  burst  out.  "Let's  try  it!  You 
don't  object,  Oscar — do  you  ?" 

"I  object?"  cried  Oscar,  amazed  at  the  bare  idea  of  his  op- 
posing any  assertion  of  his  will  to  the  assertion  of  his  brother's 
will.  "  If  Lucilla  is  willing,  I  say  Yes  with  all  my  heart." 

The  two  brothers  approached  us,  arm  in  arm.  Lucilla, 
very  reluctantly,  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded  into  trying 
the  experiment.  Two  chairs,  exactly  alike,  were  placed  in 
front  of  her.  At  a  sign  from  Nugent,  Oscar  silently  took 
the  chair  on  her  right.  By  this  arrangement  the  hand  which 
she  had  used  in  touching  Nugent's  face  would  be  now  the 
hand  that  she  would  employ  in  touching  Oscar's  face.  When 
they  were  both  seated  I  announced  that  we  were  ready.  Lu- 
cilla placed  her  hands  on  their  faces,  right  and  left,  without 
the  faintest  idea  in  her  mind  of  the  positions  which  the  two 
relatively  occupied. 

After  first  touching  them  with  both  hands,  and  both  to- 
gether, she  tried  them  separately  next,  beginning  with  Os- 
car, and  using  her  right  hand  only.  She  left  him  for  Nu- 
gent; again  using  her  right  hand  —  then  came  back  to  him 
again— then  returned  to  Nugent — hesitated — decided — tap- 
ped Nugent  lightly  on  the  head. 

"Oscar!"  she  said. 

Nugent  burst  out  laughing.  The  laugh  told  her,  before 
any  of  us  could  speak,  that  she  had  made  a  mistake  at  the 
first  attempt. 

"Try  again,  Lucilla,"  said  Oscar,  kindly. 

"Never,"  she  answered,  angrily  stepping  back  from  both 
of  them.  "One  mystification  is  enough." 

Nugent  tried  next  to  persuade  her  to  renew  the  experi- 
ment. She  checked  him  sternly  at  the  first  word. 

"Do  you  think,  if  I  won't  do  it  for  Oscar,"  she  said,  "that 
I  would  do  it  for  you  ?  You  laughed  at  me.  What  was 
there  to  laugh  at?  Your  brother's  features  are  your  feat- 
ures ;  your  brother's  hair  is  your  hair  ;  your  brother's  height 
is  your  height.  What  is  there  so  very  ridiculous — with  such 
a  resemblance  as  that — in  a  poor  blind  girl  like  me  mistak- 
ing'you  one  for  the  other?  I  wish  to  preserve  a  good  opin- 
ion of  you,  for  Oscar's  sake.  Don't  turn  me  into  ridicule 
again,  or  I  shall  be  forced  to  think  that  your  brother's  good 
lu-art  is  not  yours  also  !" 


162  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

Nugent  and  Oscar  looked  at  each  other,  petrified  by  this 
sudden  outbreak;  Nugent,  of  the  two,  being  the  most  com- 
pletely overwhelmed  by  it. 

I  attempted  to  interfere  and  put  things  right.  My  easy 
philosophy  and  my  volatile  French  nature  failed  to  see  any 
adequate  cause  for  this  vehement  exhibition  of  resentment 
on  Lucilla's  part.  Something  in  my  tone,  as  I  suppose,  only 
added  to  her  irritation.  I,  in  my  turn,  was  checked  sternly 
at  the  first  word.  "You  proposed  it,"  sshe  said;  "you  are 
the  most  to  blame."  I  hastened  to  make  my  apologies  (in- 
wardly remarking  that  the  habit  of  raising  a  storm  in  a  tea- 
cup is  a  growing  habit  with  the  rising  generation  in  En- 
gland). Nugent  followed  me  with  more  apologies  on  his 
side.  Oscar  supported  us  with  his  superior  influence.  He 
took  Lucilla's  hand,  kissed  it,  and  whispered  something  in 
her  ear.  The  kiss  and  the  whisper  acted  like  a  charm.  She 
held  out  her  hand  to  Nugent;  she  put  her  arm  round  my 
neck  and  embraced  me  with  all  her  own  grace  and  sweet- 
ness. "Forgive  me,"  she  said  to  us,  gently.  "I  wish  I 
could  learn  to  be  patient.  But  oh,  Mr.  Nugent,  it  is  some- 
times so  hard  to  be  blind !"  I  can  repeat  the  words;  but  I 
can  give  no  idea  of  the  touching  simplicity  with  which  they 
were  spoken — of  her  innocently  earnest  anxiety  to  win  her 
pardon.  She  so  affected  Nugent  that  he  too — after  a  look 
at  Oscar  which  said,  "May  I?" — kissed  the  hand  that  she 
offered  to  him.  As  his  lips  touched  her  she  started.  The 
bright  flush  which  always  indicated  the  sudden  rising  of  a 
thought  in  her  mind  flew  over  her  face.  She  unconsciously 
held  Nuo-ent's  hand  in  her  own,  absorbed  in  the  interest  of 

~  ' 

realizing  the  new  thought.  For  a  moment  she  stood,  still  as 
a  statue,  consulting  with  herself.  The  moment  passed,  she 
diopped  Nugcnt's  hand  and  turned  brightly  to  me. 

"  Will  you  think  me  very  obstinate  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Why,  my  love  ?" 

"I  am  not  satisfied  yet.     I  want  to  try  again." 

"  No  !  no !     At  any  rate,  not  to-day." 

"I  want  to  try  again,"  she  repeated.  "Not  in  your  way. 
In  a  way  of  my  own  that  has  just  come  into  my  head."  She 
turned  to  Oscar.  "  Will  you  humor  me  in  this  ?"  It  is  need- 
less to  set  down  Oscar's  reply.  She  turned  to  Nugent.  "Will 
you  ?" 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  163 

"Only  say  wnat  you  wish  me  to  do  !"  he  answered. 

"  Go  with  your  brother,"  she  said,  "  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room.  I  know  where  you  are  each  of  you  standing  at  this 
end.  Madame  Pratolungo  will  lead  me  to  the  place,  and 
will  put  me  just  within  reach  of  both  your  hands.  I  want 
each  of  you  in  turn  (arrange  by  a  sign  between  yourselves 
which  is  to  begin)  to  take  my  hand,  and  hold  it  for  a  moment, 
and  then  drop  it.  I  have  an  idea  that  I  can  distinguish  be- 
tween you  in  that  way — and  I  want  very  much  to  try  it." 

The  brothers  went  silently  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
I  led  Lucilla,  after  them,  to  the  place  in  which  they  stood. 
At  my  suggestion  Nugent  was  the  first  to  take  her  hand, 
as  she  had  requested,  to  hold  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  to 
drop  it. 

"Nugent !"  she  said,  without  the  slightest  hesitation. 

"  Quite  right,"  I  answered. 

She  laughed  gayly.  u  Go  on  !  Puzzle  me  if  you  possibly 
can." 

The  brothers  noiselessly  changed  places.  Oscar  took  her 
hand,  standing  exactly  where  Nugent  had  stood. 

"  Oscar  !"  she  said. 

"  Right  again,"  I  told  her. 

At  a  sign  from  Nugent,  Oscar  took  her  hand  for  the  sec- 
ond time.  She  repeated  his  name.  At  a  sign  from  me  the 
brothers  noiselessly  placed  themselves  one  on  either  side  of 
her — Oscar  on  the  left,  Nugent  on  the  right.  I  gave  them 
the  signal,  and  they  each  took  one  of  her  hands  at  the  same 
moment.  This  time  she  waited  a  little  longer  before  she 
spoke.  When  she  did  speak  she  was  right  once  more.  She 
turned,  smiling,  toward  the  left  side,  pointed  to  him  as  he 
stood  by  her,  and  said,  "Oscar!" 

We  were  all  three  equally  surprised.  I  examined  Oscar's 
hand  and  Nugent's  hand  alternately.  Except  the  fatal  dif- 
ference in  the  color,  they  were,  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
the  same  hands — the  same  si./e,  the  same  shape,  the  same 
texture  of  skin;  no  scar  or  mark  on  the  hand  of  one  to  dis- 
tinguish it  from  the  hand  of  the  other.  By  what  mysterious 
process  of  divination  had  she  succeeded  in  discovering  which 
was  which  ? 

She  was  unwilling,  or  unable,  to  reply  to  that  question 
plainly. 


164  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

"Something  in  mo  answers  to  one  of  them  and  not  to  the 
other,"  she  said. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 

u  I  don't  know.  It  answers  to  Oscar.  It  doesn't  answer 
to  Nugent — that's  all." 

She  stopped  any  further  inquiries  by  proposing  that  we 
should  finish  the  evening  with  some  music  in  her  own  sitting- 
room,  on  the  other  side  of  the  house.  When  we  were  seated 
together  at  the  piano-forte — with  the  twin  brothers  establish- 
ed as  our  audience  at  the  other  end  of  the  room — she  whis- 
pered in  my  ear, 

"I'll  tellyow/" 

"Tell  me  what?" 

"  How  I  know  which  is  which,  when  they  both  of  them 
take  my  hand.  When  Oscar  takes  it,  a  delicious  tingle  runs 
from  his  hand  into  mine,  and  steals  all  over  me.  I  can't  de- 
scribe it  any  better  than  that." 

"  I  understand.  And  when  Nugent  takes  your  hand,  what 
do  you  feel  ?" 

"  Nothing !" 

"And  that  is  how  you  found  out  the  difference  between 
them  down  stairs?" 

"  That  is  how  I  shall  always  find  out  the  difference  between 
them.  If  Oscar's  brother  ever  attempts  to  play  tricks  upon 
my  blindness  (he  is  quite  capable  of  it — he  laughed  at  my 
blindness !),  that  is  how  I  shall  find  him  out.  I  told  you  be- 
fore I  saw  him  that  I  hated  him.  I  hate  him  still." 

"MydearLucillal" 

"  I  hate  him  still !" 

She  struck  the  first  chords  on  the  piano  with  an  obstinate 
frown  on  her  pretty  brow.  Our  little  evening  concert  began. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FIFTH. 

HE    PUZZLES    MADAME    PKATOLUNGO. 

I  WAS  far  from  sharing  Lucilla's  opinion  of  Nugent  Du- 
bourg. 

His  enormous  self-confidence  was,  to  my  mind,  too  amus- 
ing to  be  in  the  least  offensive.  I  liked  the  spirit  and  gayety 
of  the  young  fellow.  He  came  much  nearer  than  his  brother 


POOK   MISS    FINCH.  1C5 

did  to  my  ideal  of  the  dash  and  resolution  which  ought  to 
distinguish  a  man  on  the  right  side  of  thirty.  So  far  as  my 
experience  of  them  went,  Nugent  was  (in  the  popular  En- 
glish phrase)  good  company,  and  Oscar  was  not.  My  na- 
tionality leads  me  to  attach  great  importance  to  social  qual- 
ities. The  higher  virtues  of  a  man  only  show  themselves  oc- 
casionally on  compulsion.  His  social  qualities  come  familiar- 
ly in  contact  with  us  every  day  of  our  lives.  I  like  to  be 
cheerful :  I  am  all  for  the  social  qualities. 

There  was  one  little  obstacle  in  those  early  days  which  set 
itself  up  between  my  sympathies  and  Nugent. 

I  was  thoroughly  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  impression 
which  Lucilla  had  produced  on  him. 

The  same  constraint  which  had,  in  such  a  marked  manner, 
subdued  him  at  his  first  interview  with  her,  still  lettered  him 
in  the  time  when  they  became  better  acquainted  with  one 
another.  He  was  never  in  high  spirits  in  her  presence.  Mr. 
Finch  could  talk  him  down  without  difficulty  if  Mr.  Finch's 
daughter  happened  to  be  by.  Even  when  he  was  vaporing 
about  himself,  and  telling  us  of  the  wonderful  things  he 
meant  to  do  in  Painting,  Lucilla's  appearance  was  enough  to 
check  him,  if  she  happened  to  come  into  the  room.  On  the 
first  day  when  he  showed  me  his  American  sketches  (I  de- 
fine them,  if  you  ask  my  private  opinion,  as  false  pretenses 
of  Art,  by  a  dashing  amateur) — on  that  day  he  was  in  full 
flow,  marching  up  and  down  the  room,  smacking  his  fore- 
head, and  announcing  himself  quite  gravely  as  "  the  coming 
man  "  in  landscape  painting.  "  My  mission,  Madame  Prato- 
lungo,  is  to  reconcile  Humanity  and  Nature.  I  propose  to 
show  (on  an  immense  scale)  how  Nature  (in  her  grandest  as- 
pects) can  adapt  herself  to  the  spiritual  wants  of  mankind. 
In  your  joy  or  your  sorrow  Nature  has  subtile  sympathies 
with  you,  if  you  only  know  where  to  look  for  them.  My  pict- 
ures— no!  my  poems  in  color  —  will  show  you.  Multiply 
my  works,  as  they  certainly  will  be  multiplied,  by  means  of 
prints,  and  what  does  Art  become  in  my  hands?  A  Priest- 
hood! In  what  aspect  do  I  present  myself  to  the  public? 
As  a  mere  landscape  painter?  No!  As  Grand  Consoler !" 
In  the  midst  of  this  rhapsody  (how  wonderfully  he  resem- 
bled Oscar  in  his  bursts  of  excitement  while  he  was  talking  !) 
— in  the  full  torrent  of  his  predictions  of  his  own  coming 


166  POOR    MISS  FINCH. 

greatness — Lucilla  quietly  entered  the  room.  The  "  Grand 
Consoler"  shut  up  his  port-folio,  dropped  Painting  on  the 
spot,  asked  for  Music,  and  sat  down,  a  model  of  conventional 
propriety,  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  I  inquired  afterward  why 
lie  had  checked  himself  when  she  came  in.  "Did  I?"  he  said. 
"  I  don't  know  why."  The  thing  was  really  inexplicable. 
He  honestly  admired  her;  one  had  only  to  notice  him  when 
he  was  looking  at  her  to  see  it.  He  had  not  the  faintest  sus- 
picion of  her  dislike  for  him ;  she  carefully  concealed  it  for 
Oscar's  sake.  He  felt  genuine  sympathy  for  her  in  her  afflic- 
tion :  his  mad  idea  that  her  sight  might  yet  be  restored  was 
the  natural  offspring  of  a  true  feeling  for  her.  He  was  not 
unfavorable  to  his  brother's  marriage — on  the  contrary,  he 
ruffled  the  rector's  dignity  (he  was  always  giving  offense  to 
Mr.  Finch)  by  suggesting  that  the  marriage  might  be  has- 
tened. I  heard  him  say  the  words  myself:  "The  church  is 
close  by.  Why  can't  you  put  on  your  surplice  and  make  Os- 
car happy  to-morrow  after  breakfast?"  More  even  than  this, 
he  showed  the  most  vivid  interest — like  a  woman's  interest 
rather  than  a  man's — in  learning  how  the  love-affair  between 
Oscar  and  Lucilla  had  begun.  1  referred  him,  so  far  as  Oscar 
was  concerned,  to  his  brother  as  the  fountain-head  of  infor- 
mation. He  did  not  decline  to  consult  his  brother.  He  did 
not  own  to  me  that  he  felt  any  difficulty  in  doing  so.  He 
simply  dropped  Oscar  in  silence,  and  asked  about  Lucilla. 
How  had  it  begun  on  her  side  ?  I  reminded  him  of  his  broth- 
er's romantic  position  at  Dimchurch,  and  told  him  to  judge 
for  himself  of  the  effect  it  would  produce  on  the  excitable 
imagination  of  a  young  girl.  He  declined  to  judge  for  him- 
self; he  persisted  in  appealing  to  me.  When  I  told  the  lit- 
tle love-story  of  the  two  young  people,  one  event  in  it  ap- 
peared to  make  a  very  strong  impression  on  him.  The  effect 
produced  on  Lucilla  (when  she  first  heard  it)  by  the  sound 
of  his  brother's  voice  dwelt  strangely  on  his  mind.  He  fail- 
ed to  understand  it ;  he  ridiculed  it ;  he  declined  to  believe 
it.  I  was  obliged  to  remind  him  that  Lucilla  was  blind,  and 
that  love,  which,  in  other  cases,  first  finds  its  way  to  the  heart 
through  the  eyes,  could  only,  in  her  case,  first  find  its  way 
through  the  ears.  My  explanation,  thus  offered,  had  its  ef- 
fect :  it  set  him  thinking.  "  The  sound  of  his  voice  !"  lie  said 
to  himself,  still  turning  the  problem  over  and  over  in  his 


TOOK    MISS    FINCH.  167 

mind.  "People  say  ray  voice  is  exactly  like  Oscar's,"  ho 
added,  suddenly  addressing  himself  to  me;  "do  you  think 
so  too?"  I  answered  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  it.  Ho 
got  up  from  his  chair  with  a  quick  little  shudder,  like  a  man 
who  feels  a  chill,  and  changed  the  subject.  On  the  next  oc- 
casion when  he  and  Lucilla  met,  so  far  from  being  more  fa- 
miliar with  her,  he  was  more  constrained  than  ever.  As  it 
had  begun  between  these  two,  so  it  seemed  likely  to  continue 
to  the  end.  In  my  society  he  was  always  at  his  ease;  in 
Lucilla's  society,  never ! 

What  was  the  obvious  conclusion  which  a  person  with  my 
experience  ought  to  have  drawn  from  all  this? 

I  know  well  enough  what  it  was,  now.  On  my  onth,  as  an 
honest  woman,  I  failed  to  see  it  at  the  time.  We  are  not  al- 
ways (suffer  me  to  remind  you)  consistent  with  ourselves. 
The  cleverest  people  commit  occasional  lapses  into  stupidity 
— just  as  the  stupid  people  light  up  with  gleams  of  intelli- 
gence at  certain  times.  You  may  have  shown  your  usual 
good  sense  in  conducting  your  affairs  on  Monday,  Tuesday, 
and  Wednesday  in  the  week;  but  it  doesn't  at  all  follow 
from  this  that  you  may  not  make  a  fool  of  yourself  on  Thurs- 
day. Account  for  it  as  you  may,  for  a  much  longer  time  than 
it  suits  my  self-esteem  to  reckon  up  I  suspected  nothing  and 
discovered  nothing.  I  noted  his  behavior  in  Lucilla's  pres- 
ence as  odd  behavior  and  unaccountable  behavior — and  that 
was  all. 

During  the  first  fortnight  just  mentioned  the  London  doc- 
tor came  to  see  Oscar. 

He  left  again,  perfectly   satisfied  with  the  results  of  his   , 
treatment.     The  dreadful    epileptic    mnlady  would  torture 
the  patient  and  shock  the  friends  about  him  no  more:  the 
marriage  might  safely  be  celebrated  at  the  time  agreed  on. 
Oscar  was  cured. 

The  doctor's  visit — reviving  our  interest  in  observing  the 
effect  of  the  medicine — also  revived  the  subject  of  Oscar's 
false  position  toward  Lucilla.  Nugent  and  I  held  a  debate 
about  it  bet  ween  ourselves.  I  opened  the  interview  by  sug- 
gesting that  we  should  unite  our  forces  to  persuade  his 
brother  into  taking  the  frank  and  manly  course.  Nugent 
neither  said  Yes  nor  No  to  that  proposal  at  the  outset.  He, 


168  TOOK  MISS  FINCH. 

who  inside  up  his  mind  at  a  moment's  notice  about  every 
thing  else,  took  time  to  decide  on  this  one  occasion. 

"  There  is  something  that  I  want  to  know  first,"  lie  said. 
"  I  want  to  understand  this  curious  antipathy  of  Lucilla's, 
which  my  brother  regards  with  so  much  alarm.  Can  you 
explain  it?" 

"Has  Oscar  attempted  to  explain  it?"  I  inquired  on  my 
side. 

"He  mentioned  it  in  one  of  his  letters  to  me;  and  he  tried 
to  explain  it,  when  I  asked  (on  my  arrival  at  Browndown)  if 
Lucilla  had  discovered  the  change  in  his  complexion.  But 
he  failed  entirely  to  meet  my  difficulty  in  understanding  the 
case." 

"  What  is  your  difficulty  ?" 

"This.  So  far  as  I  can  see,  she  fails  to  discover  intuitive- 
ly the  presence  of  dark  people  in  a  room,  or  of  dark  colors  in 
the  ornaments  of  a  room.  It  is  only  when  s/ie  is  told  that 
such  persons  or  such  things  are  present  that  her  prejudice 
declares  itself.  In  what  state  of  mind  does  such  a  strange 
feeling  as  this  take  its  rise?  It  seems  impossible  that  she 
can  have  any  conscious  associations  with  colors,  pleasant  or 
painful — if  it  is  true  that  she  was  blind  at  a  year  old.  How 
do  you  account  for  it?  Can  there  be  such  a  thing  as  a  pure- 
ly instinctive  antipathy,  remaining  passive  until  external  in- 
fluences rouse  it,  and  resting  on  no  sort  of  practical  experi- 
ence whatever?" 

"  I  think  there  may  be,"  I  replied.  "  Why,  when  I  was  a 
child  just  able  to  walk,  did  I  shrink  away  from  the  first  dog 
I  saw  who  barked  at  me  ?  I  could  not  have  known  at  that 
age,  either  by  experience  or  teaching,  that  a  dog's  bark  is 
sometimes  the  prelude  to  a  dog's  bite.  My  terror,  on  that 
occasion,  was  purely  instinctive,  surely  ?" 

"Ingeniously  put,"  he  said.     "  But  I  am  not  satisfied  yet." 

"You  must  also  remember,"  I  continued,  "  that  she  has  a 
positively  painful  association  with  dark  colors  on  certain  oc- 
casions. They  sometimes  produce  a  disagreeable  impression 
on  the  nerves  through  her  sense  of  touch.  She  discovered 
in  that  way  that  I  had  a  dark  gown  on  on  the  day  when  I 
first  saw  her." 

"And  yet  she  touches  my  brother's  face,  and  fails  to  ens- 
cover  any  alteration  in  it." 


roou  MISS  FINCH.  1C9 

I  met  that  objection  also — to  my  own  satisfaction,  though 
not  to  his. 

"  I  am  far  from  sure  that  she  might  not  have  made  the  dis- 
covery," I  said,  "if  she  had  touched  him  for  the  first  time 
since  the  discoloration  of  his  face.  But  she  examines  him 
now  with  a  settled  impression  in  her  mind,  derived  from  pre- 
vious experience  of  what  she  has  felt  in  touching  his  skin. 
Allow  for  the  modifying  influence  of  that  impression  on  her 
sense  of  touch — and  remember,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  is  the 
color  and  not  the  texture  of  the  skin  that  is  changed— and  his 
escape  from  discovery  becomes,  to  my  mind,  intelligible." 

He  shook  his  head ;  he  owned  he  could  not  dispute  my 
view.  But  he  was  not  content,  for  all  that. 

"  Have  you  made  any  inquiries,"  he  asked,  "  about  the  pe- 
riod of  her  infancy  before  she  was  blind  ?  She  may  be  still 
feeling,  indirectly  and  unconsciously,  the  effect  of  some  shock 
to  her  nervous  system  in  the  time  when  she  could  see." 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  making  inquiries." 

"Is  there  any  body  within  our  reach  who  was  familiarly 
associated  with  her  in  the  first  year  of  her  life?  It  is  hardly 
likely,  I  am  afraid,  at  this  distance  of  time." 

"There  is  a  person  now  in  the  house,"  I  said.  "Her  old 
nurse  is  still  living." 

"  Send  for  her  directly." 

Zillah  appeared.  After  first  explaining  what  he  wanted 
with  her,  Nugent  went  straight  to  the  inquiry  which  he  had 
in  view. 

"Was  your  young  lady  ever  frightened  when  she  was  a 
baby  by  any  dark  person,  or  any  dark  thing,  suddenly  ap- 
pearing before  her?" 

"  Never,  Sir !  I  took  good  care  to  let  nothing  come  near 
her  that  could  frighten  her — so  long,  poor  little  thing,  as  she 
could  see." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  can  depend  on  your  memory?" 

"  Quite  sure,  Sir — when  it's  a  long  time  ago." 

Zillah  was  dismissed.  Nugent — thus  far  unusually  grave 
and  unusually  anxious — turned  to  me  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"When  you  proposed  to  me  to  join  you  in  forcing  Oscar 
to  speak  out,"  he  said,  "I  was  not  quite  easy  in  my  mind 
about  the  consequences.  After  what  I  have  just  heard,  my 
tear  is  removed." 

H 


170  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

"What  fear?"  I  asked. 

"  The  fear  of  Oscar's  confession  producing  an  estrangement 
between  them  which  might  delay  the  marriage.  I  am  against 
all  delay.  I  am  especially  anxious  that  Oscar's  marriage 
should  not  be  put  off.  When  we  began  our  conversation  I 
own  to  you  I  was  of  Oscar's  opinion  that  he  would  do  wise- 
ly to  let  marriage  make  him  sure  of  his  position  in  her  affec- 
tions before  he  risked  the  disclosure.  Now — after  what  the 
nurse  has  told  us — I  see  no  risk  worth  considering." 

"  In  short,"  I  said,  "  you  agree  with  me." 

"I  agree  with  you — though  I  am  the  most  opinionated 
man  living.  The  chances  now  seem  to  me  to  be  all  in  Os- 
car's favor.  Lucilla's  antipathy  is  not  what  I  feared  it  was — 
an  antipathy  firmly  rooted  in  a  constitutional  malady.  It  is 
nothing  more  serious,"  said  Nugent,  deciding  the  question, 
at  once  and  forever,  with  the  air  of  a  man  profoundly  versed 
in  physiology — "  it  is  nothing  more  serious  than  a  fanciful 
growth,  a  morbid  accident,  of  her  blindness.  She  may  live 
to  get  over  it — she  would,  I  believe,  certainly  get  over  it  if 
she  could  see.  In  two  words,  after  what  I  have  found  out 
this  morning,  I  say  as  you  say — Oscar  is  making  a  mountain 
out  of  a  mole-hill.  He  ought  to  have  put  himself  right  with 
Lucilla  long  since.  I  have  unbounded  influence  over  him. 
It  shall  back  your  influence.  Oscar  shall  make  a  clean  breast 
of  it  before  the  week  is  out." 

We  shook  hands  on  that  bargain.  As  I  looked  at  him — 
bright  and  dashing  and  resolute — Oscar,  as  I  had  always 
wished  Oscar  to  be — I  own,  to  my  shame,  I  privately  regret- 
ted that  we  had  not  met  Nugent  in  the  twilight  on  that 
evening  walk  of  ours  which  had  opened  to  Lucilla  the  gates 
of  a  new  life. 

Having  said  to  each  other  all  that  we  had  to  say — our  two 
lovers  being  away  together,  at  the  time,  for  a  walk  on  the 
hills — we  separated,  as  I  then  supposed,  for  the  rest  of  the 
day.  Nugent  went  to  the  inn  to  look  at  a  stable  which  he- 
proposed  converting  into  a  studio :  no  room  at  Browndown 
being  half  large  enough  for  the  first  prodigious  picture  with 
which  the  "Grand  Consoler"  in  Art  proposed  to  astonish 
the  world.  As  for  me,  having  nothing  particular  to  do,  I 
went  out  to  see  if  I  could  meet  Oscar  and  Lucilla  on  their 
return  from  their  walk. 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  173 

Failing  to  find  them,  I  strolled  back  by  way  of  Brown- 
dowiL  Nugent  was  sitting  alone  on  the  low  wall  in  front 
ol  the  house,  smoking  a  cigar.  He  rose  and  came  to  meet 
me,  with  liis  finger  placed  mysteriously  on  his  lips. 

"  You  mustn't  come  in,"  he  said ;  "  and  you  mustn't  speak 
loud  enough  to  be  heard."  He  pointed  round  the  corner  of 
the  house  to  the  little  room  at  the  side,  already  familiar  to 
you  in  these  pages.  "  Oscar  and  Lucilla  are  shut  up  together 
there.  And  Oscar  is  making  his  confession  to  her  at  this 
moment." 

I  lifted  my  hands  and  eyes  in  astonishment.  Nugent 
went  on  : 

"I  see  you  want  to  know  how  it  has  all  come  about.  You 
shall  know.  While  I  was  looking  at  the  stable  (it  isn't  half 
big  enough  for  a  studio  for  Me !)  Oscar's  servant  brought 
me  a  little  pencil  note,  entreating  me,  in  Oscar's  name,  to  go 
to  him  directly  at  Browndown.  I  found  him  Availing  out 
here,  dreadfully  agitated.  He  cautioned  me  (just  as  I  have 
cautioned  you)  not  to  speak  loud.  For  the  same  reason  too. 
Lucilla  was  in  the  house — 

"  I  thought  they  had  gone  out  for  a  walk,"  I  interposed. 

"They  did  go  out  for  a  walk.  But  Lucilla  complained  of 
fatigue ;  and  Oscar  brought  her  back  to  Browndown  to  rest. 
Well,  I  inquired  what  was  the  matter.  The  answer  informed 
me  that  the  secret  of  Oscar's  complexion  had  forced  its  way 
out,  for  the  second  time,  in  Lucilla's  hearing." 

"  Jicks  again  !"  I  exclaimed. 

"  No — not  Jicks.     Oscar's  own  man-servant  this  time." 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?" 

"It  happened  through  one  of  the  boys  in  the  village. 
Oscar  and  Lucilla  found  the  little  imp  howling  outside  the 
house.  They  asked  what  was  the  matter.  The  imp  told 
them  that  the  servant  at  Browndown  had  beaten  him.  Lu- 
cilla was  indignant.  She  insisted  on  having  the  tiling  in- 
quired into.  Oscar  left  her  in  the  drawing-room  (unluckily, 
as  it  turned  out,  without  shutting  the  door),  called  the  man 
up  into  the  passage,  and  asked  what  he  meant  by  ill-using 
the  boy.  The  man  answered, 'I  boxed  his  ears,  Sir,  as  an 
example  to  the  rest  of  them.'  '  What  did  he  do  ?'  '  Rapped 
:vt  the  door,  Sir,  with  a  stick  (lie  is  not  the  first  who  has  done 
it  when  you  are  out),  and  asked  if  Blue  Face  was  at  horn;1,' 


174  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

Lucilla  heard  every  word  of  it  through  the  open  door.    Need 
I  tell  you  what  happened  next?" 

It  was  quite  needless  to  relate  that  part  of  the  story.  I 
remembered  too  well  what  had  happened  on  the  former  oc- 
casion in  the  garden.  I  saw  too  plainly  that  Lucilla  must 
have  connected  the  two  occurrences  in  her  mind,  and  must 
have  had  her  ready  suspicion  roused  to  serious  action  on  the 
necessary  result. 

"  I  understand,"  I  said.  "  Of  course  she  insisted  on  an 
explanation.  Of  course  Oscar  compromised  himself  by  a 
clumsy  excuse,  and  wanted  you  to  help  him.  What  did  you 
do?" 

"  What  I  told  you  I  should  do  this  morning.  He  had 
counted  confidently  on  my  taking  his  side — it  was  pitiable 
to  see  him,  poor  fellow  !  Still,  for  his  own  sake,  I  refused  to 
yield.  I  left  him  the  choice  of  giving  her.  the  true  explana- 
tion himself,  or  of  leaving  me  to  do  it.  There  wasn't  a 
moment  to  lose ;  she  was  in  no  humor  to  be  trifled  with,  I 
can  tell  you  !  Oscar  behaved  very  well  about  it — he  always 
behaves  well  when  I  drive  him  into  a  corner.  In  one  word, 
he  was  man  enough  to  feel  that  he  was  the  right  person  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it — not  I.  I  gave  the  poor  old  boy  a 
.hug  to  encourage  him,  pushed  him  into  the  room,  shut  the 
door  on  him,  and  came  out  here.  He  ought  to  have  done  it 
by  this  time.  He  has  done  it !  Here  he  comes !" 

Oscar  ran  out,  bare-headed,  from  the  house.  There  were 
signs  of  disturbance  in  him  as  he  approached  us,  which  warned 
me  that  something  had  gone  wrong  before  he  opened  his  lips. 

Nugent  spoke  first. 

"What's  amiss  now?"  he  asked.  "Have  you  told  her  the 
truth  ?" 

"I  have  tried  to  tell  her  the  truth." 

"  Tried  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

Oscar  put  his  arm  round  his  brother's  neck,  and  laid  his 
head  on  his  brother's  shoulder,  without  answering  a  word. 

I  put  a  question  to  him  on  my  side. 

"Did  Lucilla  refuse  to  listen  to  you?"  I  asked. 

"  No." 

"  Has  she  said  any  thing,  or  done  any  thing — " 

He  lifted  his  head  from  his  brother's  shoulder,  and  stopped 
me  before  I  could  finish  the  sentence. 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  175 

"You  need  feel  no  anxiety  about  Lucilla.  Lucilla's  curios- 
ity is  satisfied." 

"Is  she  satisfied  with  you?" 

He  dropped  his  head  back  on  his  brother's  shoulder,  and 
answered,  faintly,  "Perfectly  satisfied." 

Nugent  and  I  gazed  at  one  another  in  complete  bewildei'- 
rnent.  Lucilla  had  heard  it  all;  Lucilla  was  on  the  same 
good  terms  with  him  as  ever.  He  had  that  incredibly  happy 
result  to  communicate  to  us,  and  he  announced  it  with  a 
look  of  humiliation,  in  a  tone  of  despair !  Nugent's  patience 
gave  way. 

"Let  us  have  an  end  of  this  mystification,"  he  said,  putting 
Oscar  back  from  him,  sharply,  at  arms-length.  "  I  want  a 
plain  answer  to  a  plain  question.  She  knows  that  the  boy 
knocked  at  the  door  and  asked  if  Blue  Face  was  at  home. 
Does  she  know  what  the  boy's  impudence  meant?  Yes  or 
no?" 

"Yes." 

"Does  she  know  that  it  is  you  who  are  Blue  Face?" 

4<  No." 

"  No  ! ! !     Who  else  does  she  think  it  is  ?" 

As  he  asked  the  question  Lucilla  appeared  at  the  door  of 
the  house.  She  moved  her  blind  face  inquiringly  first  one 
way,  then  the  other.  "  Oscar  !"  she  called  out,  "  why  have 
you  left  me  alone  ?  where  are  you  ?" 

Oscar  turned,  trembling,  to  his  brother. 

"For  God's  sake  forgive  me,  Nugent!"  he  said.  "She 
thinks  it's  You." 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY- SIXTH. 

HE  PROVES  EQUAL  TO  THE  OCCASION. 

AT  that  astounding  confession,  abruptly  revealed  in  those 
plain  words,  even  resolute  Nugent  lost  all  power  of  self-con- 
trol. He  burst  out  with  a  cry  which  reached  Lucilla's  ears. 
She  instantly  turned  toward  us,  and  instantly  assumed  that 
the  cry  had  come  from  Oscar's  lips. 

"  Ah  !  there  you  arc  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Oscar !  Oscar ! 
what  /*  the  matter  with  you  to-day?" 

Oscar  was  incapable  of  answering  her.     He  had  cast  one 


176  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

glance  of  entreaty  at  his  brother  as  Lucilla  came  nearer  to 
us.  The  mute  reproach  which  had  answered  him,  in  Nu- 
gent's  eyes,  had  broken  down  his  last  reserves  of  endurance. 
He  was  crying  silently — crying  like  a  woman — on  Nngent's 
breast. 

It  was  necessary  that  somebody  should  break  the  silence. 
I  spoke  first. 

"Nothing  is  the  matter,  my  dear,"  I  said,  advancing  to 
meet  Lucilla.  "We  were  passing  the  house,  and  Oscar  ran 
out  to  stop  us  and  bring  us  in." 

My  excuse  roused  a  new  alarm  in  her. 

"  Us ?"  she  replied.     "  Who  is  with  you  ?" 

"  Nugent  is  with  me." 

The  result  of  the  deplorable  misunderstanding  which  had 
taken  place  instantly  declared  itself.  She  turned  deadly 
pale  under  the  horror  of  feeling  blindly  that  she  was  in  the 
presence  of  the  man  with  the  blue  face. 

"Take  me  near  enough  to  speak  to  him,  but  not  to  touch 
him,"  she  whispered.  "I  have  heard  what  he  is  like.  (Oh, 
if  you  saw  him,  as  I  see  him,  in  the  dork/)  I  must  control 
myself.  I  must  speak  to  Oscar's  brother,  for  Oscar's  sake." 

She  seized  my  arm  and  held  me  close  to  her.  What  ought 
I  to  have  said?  What  ought  I  to  have,  done?  I  neither 
knew  what  to  say  nor  what  to  do.  I  looked  from  Lucilla  to 
the  twin  brothers.  There  was  Oscar  the  Weak  overwhelmed 
by  the  humiliating  position  in  which  he  had  placed  himself 
toward  the  woman  whom  he  was  to  marry,  toward  the  broth- 
er whom  he  loved !  And  there  was  Nugent  the  Strong,  mas- 
ter of  himself —  with  his  arm  around  his  brother,  Avith  his 
head  erect,  with  his  hand  signing  to  me  to  keep  silence.  He 
was  right.  I  had  only  to  look  back  at  Lucilla's  face  to  see 
that  the  delicate  and  perilous  work  of  undeceiving  her  was 
not  work  to  be  done  at  a  moment's  notice,  on  the  spot. 

"You  are  not  yourself  to-day,"  I  said  to  her.  "Let  us  go 
home." 

"No!"  she  answered.  "I  must  accustom  myself  to  speak 
to  him.  I  will  begin  to-day.  Take  me  to  him — but  don't 
let  him  touch  me  !" 

Nugent  disengaged  himself  from  Oscar — whose  unfitness 
to  help  us  through  our  difficulties  was  too  manifest  to  be 
mistaken  —  as  he  saw  us  approaching.  lie  pointed  to  the 


II  2 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  170 

low  wall  in  front  of  the  bouse,  and  motioned  to  his  brother 
to  wait  there  out  of  the  way  before  Lucilla  could  speak  to 
him  again.  The  wisdom  of  this  proceeding  was  not  long  in 
asserting  itself.  Lucilla  asked  for  Oscar  the  moment  after 
he  had  left  us.  Nugent  answered  that  Oscar  had  gone  back 
to  the  house  to  get  his  hat. 

The  sound  of  Nugent's  voice  helped  her  to  calculate  her 
distance  from  him  without  assistance  from  me.  Still  hold- 
ing my  arm,  she  stopped  and  spoke  to  him. 

"  Nugent,"  she  said,  "  I  have  made  Oscar  tell  me — what 
he  ought  to  have  told  me  long  since."  (She  paused  between 
each  sentence,  painfully  controlling  herself,  painfully  catch- 
ing her  breath.)  "He  has  discovered  a  foolish  antipathy  of 
mine.  I  don't  know  how;  I  tried  to  keep  it  a  secret  from 
him.  I  need  not  tell  you  what  it  is." 

She  made  a  longer  pause  at  those  words,  holding  me 
closer  and  closer  to  her ;  struggling  more  and  more  painful- 
ly against  the  irresistible  nervous  loathing  that  had  got  pos- 
session of  her.  He  listened,  on  his  side,  with  the  constraint 
which  always  fell  upon  him  in  her  presence  more  marked 
than  ever.  His  eyes  were  on  the  ground.  He  seemed  re- 
luctant even  to  look  at  her. 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  she  went  on,  "  why  Oscar  was  un- 
willing to  tell  me" — she  stopped,  at  a  loss  how  to  express 
herself  without  running  the  risk  of  hurting  his  feelings — "to. 
tell  me,"  she  resumed,  "  what  it  is  in  you  which  is  not  like 
other  people.  He  was  afraid  my  stupid  weakness  might 
prejudice  me  against  you.  I  wish  to  say  that  I  won't  let  it 
do  that.  I  never  was  more  ashamed  of  it  than  now.  I,  too, 
have  my  misfortune.  I  ought  to  sympathize  with  you,  in- 
stead of—" 

Her  voice  had  been  growing  fainter  and  fainter  as  she 
proceeded.  She  leaned  against  me  heavily.  One  glance  at 
her  told  me  that  if  I  let  it  go  on  any  longer  she  would  fall 
into  a  swoon.  "Tell  your  brother  that  we  have  gone  back 
to  the  rectory,"  I  said  to  Nugent.  He  looked  up  at  Lucilla 
for  the  first  time.  "You  are  right,"  he  answered.  "Take 
her  home."  He  repeated  the  sign  by  which  he  had  already 
hinted  to  me  to  be  silent,  and  joined  Oscar  at  the  wall  in 
front  of  the  house. 

"  Has  he  gone  ?"  she  asked. 


180  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

"  He  has  gone." 

The  moisture  stood  thick  on  her  forehead.  I  passed 
my  handkerchief  over  her  face,  and  turned  her  toward  the 
wind. 

"  Are  you  better  now  ?" 

41  Yes." 

"  Can  you  walk  home  ?" 

"  Easily." 

I  put  her  arm  in  mine.  After  advancing  with  me  a  few 
steps  she  suddenly  stopped — with  a  blind  apprehension,  as  it 
seemed,  of  something  in  front  of  her.  She  lifted  her  little 
walking-cane,  and  moved  it  slowly  backward  and  forward  in 
the  empty  air,  with  the  action  of  some  one  who  is  clearing 
away  an  incumbrance  to  a  free  advance — say  the  action  of  a 
person  walking  in  a  thick  wood,  and  pushing  aside  the  lower 
twigs  and  branches  that  intercept  the  way. 

"What  are  you  about?"  I  asked. 

"Clearing  the  air,"  she  answered.  "The  air  is  full  of  him. 
I  am  in  a  forest  of  hovering  figures,  with  faces  of  black-blue. 
Give  me  your  arm.  Come  through  !" 

"Lucilla!"  , 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me.  I  am  coming  to  my  senses 
again.  Nobody  knows  what  folly,  what  madness  it  is,  bet- 
ter than  I  do.  I  have  a  will  of  my  own :  suffer  as  I  may,  I 
promise  to  break  myself  of  it  this  time.  I  can't  and  won't 
let  Oscar's  brother  see  that  he  is  an  object  of  horror  to  me." 
She  stopped  once  more,  and  gave  me  a  little  propitiatory 
kiss.  "Blame  my  blindness,  dear,  don't  blame  me.  If  I 
could  only  see —  Ah,  how  can  I  make  you  understand  me, 
you  who  don't  live  in  the  dark?"  She  went  on  a  few  paces, 
silent  and  thoughtful,  and  then  spoke  again.  "  You  won't 
laugh  at  me  if  I  say  something?" 

"  You  know  I  won't." 

"  Suppose  yourself  to  be  in  bed  at  night." 

"Yes?" 

"  I  have  heard  people  say  that  they  have  sometimes  woke 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  on  a  sudden,  without  any  noise 'to 
disturb  them.  And  they  have  fancied  (without  any  thing 
particular  to  justify  it)  that  there  was  something,  or  some- 
body, in  the  dark  room.  Has  that  ever  happened  to  you  ?" 

"Certainly,  my  love.     It  has  happened  to  most  people  to 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  181 

fancy  what  you  say  when  their  nerves  are  a  little  out  of 
order." 

"Very  well.  There  is  my  fancy,  and  there  are  my  nerves. 
When  it  happened  to  you,  what  did  you  do?" 

"I  struck  a  light,  and  satisfied  myself  that  I  was  wrong." 

"Suppose  yourself  without  candle-  or  matches,  in  a  night 
without  end,  left  alone  with  your  fancy  in  the  dark.  There 
you  have  Me !  It  would  not  be  easy,  would  it,  to  satisfy 
yourself  if  you  were  in  that  helpless  condition  ?  You  might 
suffer  under  it,  very  unreasonably,  and  yet  very  keenly  for 
all  that."  She  lifted  her  little  cane  with  a  sad  smile.  "You 
might  be  almost  as  great  a  fool  as  poorLucilla,  and  clear  the 
air  before  you  with  this !" 

The  charm  of  her  voice  and  the  manner  added  to  the 
touching  simplicity,  the  pathetic  truth,  of  those  words.  She 
made  me  realize,  as  I  had  never  realized  before,  what  it  is  to 
have,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  the  blessing  of  imagination 
and  the  curse  of  blindness.  For  a  moment,  I  was  absorbed 
in  my  admiration  and  my  love  for  her.  For  a  moment,  I 
forgot  the  terrible  position  in  which  we  were  all  placed. 
She  unconsciously  recalled  it  to  me  when  she  spoke  next. 

"Perhaps  I  was  wrong  to  force  the  truth  out  of  Oscar," 
she  said,  putting  her  arm  again  in  mine,  and  walking  on.  "I 
might  have  reconciled  myself  to  his  brother,  if  I  had  never 
known  what  his  brother  was  like.  And  yet  I  felt  there  was 
something  strange  in  him,  without  being  told,  and  without 
knowing  what  it  was.  There  must  have  been  a  reason  in 
me  for  the  dislike  that  I  felt  for  him  from  the  first." 

Those  words  appeared  to  me  to  indicate  the  state  of  mind 
which  had  led  to  Lucilla's  deplorable  mistake.  I  cautiously 
put  some  questions  to  her  to  test  the  correctness  of  my  own 
idea. 

'•You  spoke  just  now  of  forcing  the  truth  out  of  Oscar," 
I  said.  "  What  made  you  suspect  that  he  was  concealing 
the  truth  from  you  ?" 

"  He  was  so  strangely  embarrassed  and  confused,"  she 
answered.  "Any  body  in  my  place  would  have  suspected 
him  of  concealing  the  truth." 

So  far  the  answer  was  conclusive.  "And  how  came  you 
to  find  out  what  the  truth  really  was?"  I  asked  next. 

"I  guessed  at  it,"  she  replied,  "  from  something  he  saici  in 


182  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

referring  to  his  brother.  You  know  that  I  took  a  fanciful 
dislike  to  Nugent  Dubourg  before  he  came  to  Dirnchurch?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  you  remember  that  my  prejudice  against  him  was 
confirmed,  on  the  first  day  when  I  passed  my  hand  over  his 
face  to  compare  it  with  his  brother's?" 

"  I  remember." 

"  Well — while  Oscar  was  rambling  and  contradicting  him- 
self— he  said  something  (a  mere  trifle)  which  suggested  to 
me  that  the  person  with  the  blue  face  must  be  his  brother. 
There  was  the  explanation  that  I  had  sought  for  in  vain — 
the  explanation  of  my  persistent  dislike  to  Nugent !  That 
horrid  dark  face  of  his  must  have  produced  some  influence 
on  me  when  I  first  touched  it,  like  the  influence  which  your 
horrid  purple  dress  produced  on  me,  when  I  first  touched 
that.  Don't  you  see  ?" 

I  saw  but  too  plainly.  Oscar  had  been  indebted  for  his 
escape  from  discovery  entirely  to  Lucilla's  misinterpretation 
of  his  language.  And  Lucilla's  misinterpretation  now  stood 
revealed  as  the  natural  product  of  her  anxiety  to  account  for 
her  prejudice  against  Nugent  Dubourg.  Although  the  mis- 
chief had  been  done — still,  for  the  quieting  of  my  own  con- 
science, I  made  an  attempt  to  shake  her  faith  in  the  false 
conclusion  at  which  she  had  arrived. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  don't  see  yet,"  I  said.  "I  don't 
understand  Oscar's  embarrassment  in  speaking  to  you.  As 
you  interpret  him,  he  had  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  and  nothing 
to  make  him  doubt  how  you  would  receive  what  he  said. 
Why  should  he  be  embarrassed  ?" 

She  smiled  satirically. 

"What  has  become  of  your  memory,  my  dear?"  she  asked. 
"  You  forget  that  in  speaking  to  Me  of  his  brother,  Oscar 
was  placed  between  a  choice  of  difficulties.  On  one  side,  my 
dislike  of  dark  colors  and  dark  people  warned  him  to  hoM 
his  tongue.  On  the  other,  my  hatred  of  having  advantage 
taken  of  my  blindness  to  keep  things  secret  from  me,  pressed 
him  to  speak  out.  Isn't  that  enough — with  his  shy  dis- 
position, poor  fellow — to  account  for  his  being  embarrassed? 
Besides,"  she  added,  speaking  more  seriously,  "  I  let  him  see 
in  my  manner  toward  him  that  he  had  disappointed  and 
pained  me." 


POOll    MISS    FINCH.  183 

"  How  ?"  I  asked. 

"Don't  you  remember  his  once  acknowledging  in  the 
garden  that  lie  had  painted  his  face,  in  the  character  of  Blue- 
beard, to  amuse  the  children  ?  It  was  not  delicate,  it  was  not 
affectionate — it  was  not  like  him — to  show  such  insensibility 
as  that  to  his  brother's  shocking  disfigurement.  lie  ought  to 
have  remembered  it,  he  ought  to  have  respected  it.  There ! 
we  will  say  no  more.  We  will  go  indoors  and  open  the 
piano  and  try  to  forget !" 

Even  Oscar's  clumsy  excuse  in  the  garden  —  instead  of 
arousing  her  suspicion  —  had  lent  itself  to  strengthen  the 
foregone  conclusion  rooted  in  her  mind !  At  that  critical 
moment — before  I  had  consulted  with  the  twin-brothers  as 
to  what  was  to  be  done  next — it  was  impossible  to  say  more. 
I  own  I  felt  alarmed  when  I  thought  of  the  future.  When 
she  was  told — as  told  she  must  be — of  the  dreadful  delusion 
into  which^he  had  fallen,  what  would  be  the  result  to  Oscar? 
what  would  be  the  effect  on  herself?  I  own  I  shrank  from 
pursuing  the  inquiry. 

When  we  reached  the  turn  in  the  valley  I  looked  back  at 
Browndown  for  the  last  time.  The  twin  brothers  were  still 
in  the  place  at  which  we  had  left  them.  Though  the  faces 
were  indistinguishable,  I  could  still  see  tiie  figures  plainly — 
Oscar  sitting  crouched  upon  the  wall ;  Nugent  erect  at  his 
Bide,  with  one  hand  laid  on  his  shoulder!  Even  at  that  dis- 
tance the  types  of  the  two  characters  were  expressed  in  the 
attitudes  of  the  two  men.  As  we  entered  the  new  winding 
of  the  valley  which  shut  them  out  from  view  I  felt  (so  easy 
is  it  to  comfort  a  woman !)  that  the  commanding  position  of 
Nugent  had  produced  its  encouraging  impression  on  my 
mind.  "He  will  find  a  way  out  of  it,"  I  said  to  myself. 
"Nugent  will  help  us  through  !" 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY- SEVENTH. 

HE    FINDS    A    WAY    OUT   OF    IT. 

WE  sat  down  at  the  piano,  as  Lucilla  had  proposed.  She 
wished  me  to  play  first,  and  to  play  alone.  I  was  teaching 
her,  at  the  time,  one  of  the  Sonatas  of  Mozart,  and  I  now 
tried  to  go  on  with  the  lesson.  Never,  before  or  since,  have 


184  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

I  played  so  badly  as  on  that  day.  The  divine  serenity  and 
completeness  by  which  Mozart's  music  is,  to  my  mind,  raised 
above  all  other  music  that  ever  was  written  can  only  be 
worthily  interpreted  by  a  player  whose  whole  mind  is  given 
undividedly  to  the  work.  Devoured  as  I  then  was  by  my 
own  anxieties,  I  might  profane  those  heavenly  melodies — I 
could  not  play  them.  Lucilla  accepted  my  excuses,  and  took 
my  place. 

Half  an  hour  passed  without  news  from  Browndown. 

Calculated  by  reference  to  itself  half  an  hour  is,  no  doubt, 
a  short  space  of  time.  Calculated  by  reference  to  your  own 
suspense,  while  your  own  interests  are  at  stake,  half  an  horn- 
is  an  eternity.  Every  minute  that  passed,  leaving  Lucilla 
still  undisturbed  in  her  delusion,  was  a  minute  that  pricked 
me  in  the  conscience.  The  longer  we  left  her  in  ignorance, 
the  more  painful  to  all  of  us  the  hard  duty  of  enlightening 
her  would  become.  I  began  to  get  restless.  Luoilla,  on  her 
side,  began  to  complain  of  fatigue.  After  the  agitation  that 
she  had  gone  through,  the  inevitable  reaction  had  come.  I 
recommended  her  to  go  to  her  room  and  rest.  She  took  my 
advice.  In  the  state  of  my  mind  at  that  time,  it  was  an  in- 
expressible relief  to  me  to  be  left  by  myself. 

After  pacing  backward  and  forward  for  some  little  time 
in  the  sitting-room,  and  trying  vainly  to  see  my  way  through 
the  difficulties  that'  now  beset  us,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
wait  no  longer  for  the  news  that  never  came.  The  brothers 
were  still  at  Browndown.  To  Browndown  I  determined  to 
return. 

I  peeped  quietly  into  Lucilla's  room.  She  was  asleep. 
After  a  word  to  Zillah,  recommending  her  young  mistress  to 
her  care,  I  slipped  out.  As  I  crossed  the  lawn  I  heard  the 
garden  gate  opened.  In  a  minute  more  the  man  of  all  others 
whom  I  most  wanted  to  see  presented  himself  before  mo  in 
the  person  of  Nugent  Dubourg.  He  had  borrowed  Oscar's 
key,  and  had  set  off  alone  for  the  rectory  to  tell  me  what  had 
passed  between  his  brother  and  himself. 

"This  is  the  first  stroke  of  luck  that  has  fallen  to  me  to- 
day," he  said.  "I  was  wondering  how  I  should  contrive  to 
speak  to  you  privately.  And  here  you  are — accessible  and 
alone.  Where  is  Lucilla?  Can  we  depend  on  having  the 
garden  to  ourselves'?" 


POOR   M  RS   FINCH.  185 

I  satisfied  him  on  both  those  points.  He  looked  sadly  pale 
and  worn.  Before  he  opened  his  lips  I  saw  that  he  too  had 
had  his  mind  disturbed  and  his  patience  tried  since  I  had  left 
him.  There  was  a  summer-house  at  the  end  of  the  garden, 
with  a  view  over  the  breezy  solitude  of  the  Downs.  Here 
we  established  ourselves ;  and  here,  in  my  headlong  way,  I 
opened  the  interview  with  the  one  formidable  question, 
"Who  is  to  tell  her  of  the  mistake  that  she  has  made?" 

"Nobody  is  to  tell  her." 

That  answer  staggered  me  at  the  outset.  I  looked  at  Nu- 
gent in  silent  astonishment. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  surprised  at,"  he  said.  "Let  me 
put  my  point  of  view  before  you  in  two  words.  I  have  had 
a  serious  talk  with  Oscar — " 

Women  are  proverbially  bad  listeners,  and  I  am  no  better 
than  the  rest  of  them.  I  interrupted  him  before  he  could 
get  any  further. 

"Did  Oscar  tell  you  how  the  mistake  happened?"  I  asked. 

"He  could  no  more  tell  me  than  you  can.  He  owns — 
when  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  her — that  his  pres- 
ence of  mind  completely  failed  him:  he  didn't  himself  know 
what  he  was  saying  at  the  time.  He  lost  his  head,  and  she 
lost  her  patience.  Think  of  his  nervous  confusion  in  collision 
with  her  nervous  irritability,  and  the  result  explains  itself: 
nothing  could  come  of  it  but  misapprehension  and  mistake. 
I  turned  the  thing  over  in  my  mind  after  you  had  left  us; 
and  the  one  course  to  take  that  I  could  see  was  to  accept 
the  position  patiently,  and  to  make  the  best  instead  of  the 
worst  of  it.  Having  reached  this  conclusion,  I  settled  the 
matter  (as  I  settle  most  other  difficulties)  by  cutting  the 
Gordian  knot.  I  said  to  Oscar,  'Would  it  be  a  relief  to  your 
mind  to  leave  her  present  impression  undisturbed  until  you 
are  married  ?'  You  know  him — I  needn't  tell  you  what  his 
answer  was.  'Very  well,'  I  said.  'Dry  your  eyes  and  com- 
pose yourself.  I  have  begun  as  Blue  Face.  As  Blue  Face  I 
will  go  on  till  further  notice.'  I  spare  you  the  description 
of  Oscar's  gratitude.  I  proposed,  and  he  accepted.  There 
is  the  way  out  of  the  difficulty  as  I  see  it." 

"Your  way  out  of  the  difficulty  is  an  unworthy  way  and 
a  false  way,"  I  answered.  "  I  protest  against  taking  that 
cruel  advantage  of  Lucilla's  blindness.  I  refuse  to  have  any 
thiusr  to  do  with  it." 


1  8(3  POOR  MISS  FINCH. 

He  opened  his  case  and  took  out  a  cigar. 

"  Do  as  you  please,"  he  said.  "  You  saw  the  pitiable  state 
she  was  in  when  she  forced  herself  to  speak  to  me.  You  saw 
how  her  disgust  and  horror  overpowered  her  at  the  end. 
Transfer  that  disgust  and  horror  to  Oscar  (with  indignation 
and  contempt  added  in  his  case) ;  expose  him  to  the  result 
of  rousing  those  feelings  in  her,  before  he  is  fortified  by  a 
husband's  influence  over  her  mind,  and  a  husband's  place  in 
her  affections — if  you  dare.  I  love  the  poor  fellow,  and 
Z  daren't.  May  I  smoke  ?" 

I  gave  him  his  permission  to  smoke  by  a  gesture.  Before 
I  said  any  thing  more  to  this  inscrutable  gentleman  I  felt  the 
necessity  of  understanding  him — if  I  could. 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  accounting  for  his  readiness  to 
sacrifice  himself  in  the  interests  of  Oscar's  tranquillity.  He 
never  did  things  by  halves — he  liked  dashing  at  difficulties 
which  would  have  made  other  men  pause.  The  same  zeal  in 
his  brother's  service  which  had  saved  Oscar's  life  at  the  Tri- 
al, might  well  be  the  zeal  that  animated  him  now.  The  per- 
plexity that  I  felt  was  not  roused  in  me  by  the  course  that  he 
had  taken,  but  by  the  language  in  which  he  justified  himself, 
and,  more  still,  by  his  behavior  to  me  while  he  was  speaking. 
The  well-bred,  brilliant  young  fellow  of  my  previous  experi- 
ence had  now  turned  as  dogged  and  as  ungracious  as  a  man 
could  be.  He  waited  to  hear  what  I  had  to  say  to  him  next 
with  a  hard  defiance  and  desperation  of  manner  entirely  un- 
called for  by  the  circumstances,  and  entirely  out  of  harmony 
with  his  character  so  far  as  I  had  observed  it.  That  there 
was  something  lurking  under  the  surface,  some  inner  motive 
at  work  in  him  which  he  was  concealing  from  his  brother 
and  concealing  from  me,  was  as  plainly  visible  as  the  sun- 
shine and  shade  on  the  view  that  I  was  looking  at  from  the 
summer-house.  But  what  that  something  was,  or  what  that 
inner  motive  might  be,  it  baffled  my  utmost  sagacity  to 
guess.  Not  the  faintest  idea  of  the  terrible  secret  that  he 
was  hiding  from  me  crossed  my  mind.  Innocent  of  all  sus- 
picion of  the  truth,  there  I  sat  opposite  to  him,  the  uncon- 
scious witness  of  that  unhappy  man's  final  struggle  to  be 
true  to  the  brother  whom  he  loved,  and  to  master  the  devour- 
ing passion  that  consumed  him.  So  long  as  Lucilla  falsely 
believed  him  to  be  disfigured  by  the  drug,  so  long  the  com- 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  187 

monest  consideration  for  her  tranquillity  would,  in  the  estima- 
tion of  others,  excuse  and  explain  his  keeping  out  of  her  pres- 
ence. In  that  separation  lay  his  last  chance  of  raising  an  in- 
surmountable barrier  between  Lucilla  and  himself.  He  had 
already  tried  uselessly  to  place  another  obstacle  in  the  way 
— lie  had  vainly  attempted  to  hasten  the  marriage,  which 
would  have  made  Lucilla  sacred  to  him  as  his  brother's  wife. 
That  eftbrt  having  failed,  there  was  but  one  honorable  alter- 
native left  to  him — to  keep  out  of  her  society  until  she  was 
married  to  Oscar.  He  had  accepted  the  position  in  which 
Oscar  had  placed  him  as  the  one  means  of  reaching  the  end 
in  view  without  exciting  suspicion  of  the  truth,  and  he  had 
encountered,  as  his  reward  for  the  sacrifice,  my  ignorant  pro- 
test, my  stupid  opposition,  set  as  obstacles  in  his  way  ! 
There  were  the  motives — the  pure,  the  noble  motives — 
which  animated  him,  as  I  know  them  now.  There  is  the 
right  reading  of  the  dogged  language  that  mystified  me,  of 
the  defiant  manner  that  offended  me,  interpreted  by  the  one 
light  that  I  have  to  guide  my  pen — the  light  of  later  events  ! 

"  Well  ?"  he  said.  "  Are  we  allies,  or  not  ?  Are  you  with 
me,  or  against  me  ?" 

I  gave  up  attempting  to  understand  him,  and  answered 
that  plain  question  plainly. 

"  I  don't  deny  that  the  consequences  of  undeceiving  her 
may  be  serious,"  I  said.  "  But,  for  all  that,  I  will  have  no 
share  in  the  cruelty  of  keeping  her  deceived." 

Nugent  held  up  his  forefinger  warningly. 

"  Pause  and  reflect,  Madame  Pratolungo  !  The  mischief 
that  you  may  do,  as  matters  stand  now,  may  be  mischief 
that  you  can  never  repair.  It's  useless  to  ask  you  to  alter 
your  mind.  I  only  ask  you  to  wait  a  little.  There  is  plenty 
of  time  before  the  wedding-day.  Something  may  happen 
which  will  spare  you  the  necessity  of  enlightening  Lucilla 
with  your  own  lips." 

"  What  can  happen  ?"  I  asked. 

"Lucilla  may  yet  see  him  as  we  see  him,"  Nugent  answer- 
ed. "Lncilla's  own  eyes  may  discover  the  truth." 

"  What !  have  you  not  abandoned  your  mad  notion  of 
curing  her  blindness  yet?" 

"I  will  abandon  my  notion  when  the  German  surgeon  tells 
me  it  is  mad.  Not  before." 


18^  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

"Have  yon  said  any  thing  about  it  to  Oscar?" 

'*"  Not  a  word.  I  shall  say  nothing  about  it  to  any  body 
but  you  until  the  German  is  safe  on  the  shores  of  England." 

"  Do  you  expect  him  to  arrive  before  the  marriage?" 

"  Certainly.  He  would  have  left  New  York  with  me,  but 
for  one  patient  who  still  required  his  care.  No  new  patients 
will  tempt  him  to  stay  in  America.  His  extraordinary  suc- 
cess has  made  his  fortune.  The  ambition  of  his  life  is  to  see 
England,  and  he  can  afford  to  gratify  it.  He  may  be  here 
by  the  next  steamer  that  reaches  Liverpool." 

"And  when  he  does  come,  you  mean  to  bring  him  to  Dim- 
church?"  • 

"  Yes — unless  Lucilla  objects  to  it." 

"  Suppose  Oscar  objects  ?  She  is  resigned  to  be  blind  for 
life.  If  you  disturb  that  resignation  with  no  useful  result, 
you  may  make  an  unhappy  woman  of  her  for  the  rest  of  her 
days.  In  your  brother's  place,  I  should  object  to  running 
that  risk." 

"My  brother  is  doubly  interested  in  running  the  risk.  I 
repeat  what  I  have  already  told  you.  The  physical  result 
will  not  be  the  only  result,  if  her  sight  can  be  restored. 
There  will  be  a  new  mind  put  into  her  as  well  as*a  new  sense. 
Oscar  has  every  thing  to  dread  from  this  morbid  fancy  of 
hers  as  long  as  she  is  blind.  Only  let  her  eyes  correct  her 
fancy — only  let  her  see  him  as  we  see  him,  and  get  used  to 
him,  as  we  have  got  used  to  him,  and  Oscar's  future  with 
her  is  safe.  Will  you  leave  things  as  they  are  for  the  pres- 
ent, on  the  chance  that  the  German  surgeon  may  get  here 
before  the  wedding-day?" 

I  consented  to  that ;  being  influenced,  in  spite  of  myself, 
by  the  remarkable  coincidence  between  what  Nugent  had 
just  said  of  Lucilla,  and  what  Lucilla  had  said  to  me  of  her- 
self earlier  in  the  day.  It  was  impossible  to  deny  that  Nu- 
gent's  theory,  wild  as  it  sounded,  found  its  confirmation,  so 
far,  in  Ludilla's  view  of  her  own  case.  Having  settled  the 
difference  between  us  in  this  way,  for  the  time  being,  I  shift- 
ed our  talk  next  to  the  difficult  question  of  Nugent's  relations 
toward  Lucilla.  "  How  are  you  to  meet  her  again,"  I  said, 
"after  the  effect  vou  produced  on  her  at  the  meeting  to- 
day ?" 

He  spoke  far  more  pleasantly  in  discussing  this  side  of 


rooii  MISS  FiN'cu.  189 

the  subject.     His  language  and  his  manner  both  improved 
together. 

"  If  I  could  have  had  my  own  way,"  he  said,  "  Lucilla 
would  have  been  relieved,  by  this  time,  of  all  fear  of  meeting 
with  me  again.  She  would  have  heard  from  you  or  from 
Oscar  that  business  had  obliged  me  to  leave  Dimchurch." 

"  Does  Oscar  object  to  let  you  go  ?" 

"  He  won't  hear  of  my  going.  I  did  my  best  to  persuade 
him — I  promised  to  return  for  the  marriage.  Quite  useless! 
' If  you  leave  me  here  by  myself,'  he  said,  'to  think  over  the 
mischief  I  have  done,  and  the  sacrifices  I  have  forced  on  you, 
you  will  break  my  heart.  You  don't  know  what  an  encour- 
agement your  presence  is  to  me  ;  you  don't  know  what  a 
blank  you  will  leave  in  my  life  if  you  go  !'  I  am  as  weak  as 
Oscar  is,  when  Oscar  speaks  to  me  in  that  way.  Against  my 
own  convictions,  against  my  own  wishes,  I  yielded.  I  should 
have  been  better  away — far,  far  better  away." 

He  said  those  closing  words  in  a  tone  which  startled  me. 
It  was  nothing  less  than  a  tone  of  despair.  How  little  I  un- 
derstood him  then !  how  well  I  understand  him  now !  In  those 
melancholy  accents  spoke  the  last  of  his  honor,  the  last  of  his 
truth.  Miserable,  innocent  Lucilla  !  Miserable,  guilty  Nu- 
gent ! 

"  And  now  you  remain  at  Dimchurch,"  I  resumed,  "  what 
are  you  to  do  ?" 

"  I  must  do  my  best  to  spare  her  the  nervous  suffering 
which  I  unwillingly  inflicted  on  her  to-day.  The  morbid  re- 
pulsion that  she  feels  in  my  presence  is  not  to  be  controlled 
— I  can  see  that  plainly.  I  shall  keep  out  of  her  way,  grad- 
ually withdrawing  myself,  so  as  not  .to  force  my  absence  on 
her  attention.  I  shall  pay  fewer  and  fewer  visits  at  the  rec- 
tory, and  remain  longer  and  longer  at  Browndown  every  day. 
After  they  are  married —  He  suddenly  stopped;  the  words 
seemed  to  stick  in  his  throat.  He  busied  himself  in  relight 
ing  his  cigar,  and  took  a  long  time  to  do  it. 

"After  they  are  married,"  I  repeated  :  "  what  then  ?" 

"When  Oscar  is  married,  Oscar  will  not  find  my  presence 
indispensable  to  his  happiness.  I  shall  leave  Dimchurch." 

"You  will  have  to  give  a  reason." 

1  shall  give  the  true  reason.     I  can  find  no  studio  here 
bj<jr  enouurh  for  Me — as  I  have  told  vou.    And  even  if  I  could 


190  POOR   MISS    FIXCII. 

find  a  studio,  I  should  be  doing  no  good  if  I  remained  at 
Dimcliurch.  My  intellect  would  contract,  my  brains  would 
rust,  in  this  remote  place.  Let  Oscar  live  his  quiet  married 
life  here.  And  let  me  go  to  the  atmosphere  that  is  litter  for 
me — the  atmosphere  of  London  or  Paris." 

He  sighed,  and  fixed  his  eyes  absently  on  the  open  hilly 
view  from  the  summer-house  door. 

"  It's  strange  to  see  you  depressed,"  I  said.  "  Your  spirits 
seemed  to  be  quite  inexhaustible  on  that  first  evening,  when 
you  interrupted  Mr.  Finch  over  '  Hamlet.' " 

He  threw  away  the  end  of  his  cigar,  and  laughed  bitterly. 

"  We  artists  are  always  in  extremes,"  he  said.  "  What 
do  you  think  I  was  wishing  just  before  you  spoke  to  me?" 

"  I  can't  guess." 

"  I  was  wishing  I  had  never  come  to  Dimchurch  !" 

Before  I  could  return  a  word  on  my  side,  Lucilla's  voice 
reached  our  ears,  calling  to  me  from  the  garden.  Nugent 
instantly  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Have  we  said  all  we  need  say  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes — for  to-day,  at  any  rate." 

"  For  to-day,  then— good-by  !" 

He  leaped  up,  caught  the  cross-bar  of  wood  over  the  en- 
trance to  the  summer-house,  and,  swinging  himself  on  to  the 
low  garden  wall  beyond,  disappeared  in  the  field  on  the  oth- 
er side.  I  answered  Lucilla's  call,  and  hastened  away  to  find 
her.  We  met  on  the  lawn.  She  looked  wild  and  pale,  as  if 
something  had  frightened  her. 

"Any  tiling  wrong  at  the  rectory  ?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing  wrong,"  she  answered,  "  except  with  Me.  The 
next  time  I  complain  of  fatigue,  don't  advise  me  to  go  and 
lie  down  on  my  bed." 

"  Why  not  ?  I  looked  in  at  you  before  I  came  out  here. 
You  were  fast  asleep- — the  picture  of  repose." 

"Repose?  You  were  never  more  mistaken  in  your  life. 
I  was  in  the  agony  of  a  horrid  dream." 

"You  were  perfectly  quiet  when  I  saw  you." 

"  It  must  have  been  after  you  saw  me,  then.  Let  me  come 
and  sleep  with  you  to-night.  I  daren't  be  by  myself  if  I 
dream  of  it  again." 

"  WThat  did  you  dream  of?" 

"I  dreamed  that  I  was  standing,  in  my  wedding-dress,  be- 


I'OOK    MISS   FINCH.  191 

fore  the  altar  of  a  strange  church ;  and  that  a  clergy- 
man, whose  voice  I  had  never  heard  before,  was  marrying 
me—" 

She  stopped,  impatiently  waving  her  hand  before  her 
in  the  air.  "  Blind  as  I  am,"  she  said,  "  I  see  him  again 
now !" 

"The  bridegroom?" 

"  Yes." 

"Oscar?" 

"  No." 

"  Who,  then  ?" 

"  Oscar's  brother.     Nugent  Dubourg." 

(Haven't  1  mentioned  before  that  I  am  sometimes  a  great 
fool?  If  I  have  not,  I  beg  to  mention  it  now.  I  burst  out 
laughing.) 

"  What  is  there  to  laugh  at?"  she  asked,  angrily.  "I  saw 
his  hideous,  discolored  face — I  am  never  blind  in  my  dreams. 
I  felt  his  blue  hand  put  the  ring  on  my  finger.  Wait !  The 
worst  part  of  it  is  to  come.  I  married  Nugent  Dubourg  will- 
ingly— married  him  without  a  thought  of  my  engagement 
to  Oscar.  Yes !  yes !  I  know  it's  only  a  dream.  I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  it,  for  all  that.  I  don't  like  to  be  false  to 
Oscar  even  in  a  dream.  Let  us  go  to  him.  I  want  to  hear 
him  tell  me  that  he  loves  me.  Come  to  Browndown.  I'm 
so  nervous,  I  don't  like  going  by  myself.  Come  to  Brown- 
down  !" 

I  have  another  humiliating  confession  to  make — I  tried  to 
get  otFgoing  to  Browndown.  (So  like  those  unfeeling  French 
people,  isn't  it  ?) 

But  I  had  my  reason,  too.  If  I  disapproved  of  the  resolu- 
tion at  which  Nugent  had  arrived,  I  viewed  far  more  unfa- 
vorably the  selfish  weakness  on  Oscar's  part,  which  had  al- 
lowed his  brother  to  sacrifice  himself.  Lucilla's  lover  hod 
sunk  to  something  very  like  a  despicable  character  in  my  es- 
timation. I  felt  that  I  might  let  him  see  what  I  thought  of 
him  if  I  found  myself  in  his  company  at  that  moment. 

"Considering  the  object  that  you  have  in  view, my  dear," 
I  said  to  Lucilla,  "do  you  think  you  want  me  at  Brown- 
down  ?" 

"Haven't  I  already  told  you?"  she  asked,  impatiently. 
"I  am  so  nervous  —  so  completely  upset  —  that  I  don't  feel 


192  POOR    MISS    FIXCH. 

equal  to  going  out  by  myself.  Have  you  no  sympathy  for 
me?  Suppose  you  had  dreamed  that  you  were  marrying 
Nugent  instead  of  Oscar?" 

"Ah,  bah!  what  of  that?  I  should  only  have  dreamed 
that  I  was  marrying  the  most  agreeable  man  of  the  two." 

"The  most  agreeable  man  of  the  two!  There  you  are 
again — always  unjust  to  Oscar." 

"My  love  !  if  you  could  see  lor  yourself,  you  would  learn 
to  appreciate  Nugent's  good  qualities  as  I  do." 

"  I  prefer  appreciating  Oscar's  good  qualities." 

"You  are  prejudiced,  Lucilla." 

"So  are  you." 

"You  happen  to  have  met  Oscar  first." 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  If  Nugent  had  followed  us  instead  of  Oscar; 
if,  of  those  two  charming  voices  which  are  both  the  same, 
one  had  spoken  instead  of  the  other — " 

"I  won't  hear  a  word  more!" 

"  Tra-la-la-la  !  It  happens  to  have  been  Oscar.  Turn  it 
the  other  way,  and  Nugent  might  have  been  the  man." 

"Madame  Pratolungo,  I  am  not  accustomed  to  be  insulted  ! 
I  have  no  more  to  say  to  you." 

With  that  dignified  reply,  and  with  the  loveliest  color  in 
her  face  that  you  ever  saw  in  your  life,  my  darling  Lucilla 
turned  her  pretty  back  on  me,  and  set  off  for  Browndown  by 
herself. 

Ah,  my  rash  tongue !  Ah,  my  nasty  foreign  temper ! 
Why  did  I  let  her  irritate  me  ?  I,  the  elder  of  the  two — 
why  did  I  not  set  her  an  example  of  self-control  ?  Who  can 
tell?  When  does  a  woman  know  why  she  does  any  thing? 
Did  Eve  know,  when  Mr.  Serpent  offered  her  the  apple,  why 
she  ate  it?  Not  she! 

What  was  to  be  done  now  ?  Two  tilings  were  to  be  done. 
First  thing :  to  cool  myself  down.  Second  thing:  to  follow 
Lucilla,  and  kiss  and  make  it  up. 

Either  I  took  some  time  to  eool — or,  in  the  irritation  of  the 
moment,  Lucilla  walked  faster  than  usual.  She  had  got  to 
Browndown  before  I  could  overtake  her.  On  opening  the 
house  door  I  heard  them  talking.  It  would  hardly  do  to  dis- 
turb them — especially  now  I  was  in  disgrace.  While  I  was 
hesitating,  and  wondering  what  my  next  proceeding  had 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  193 

better  be,  my  eye  was  attracted  by  a  letter  lying  on  the  hall 
table.  I  looked  (one  is  always  inquisitive  in  those  idle  mo- 
ments when  one  doesn't  know  what  to  do) — I  looked  at  the 
address.  The  letter  was  directed  to  Nugent,  and  the  post- 
mark was  Liverpool. 

I  drew  the  inevitable  conclusion.     The  German  oculist 
was  in  England  ! 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY -EIGHTH. 

HE    CROSSES   THE    RUBICON. 

I  WAS  still  in  doubt  whether  to  enter  the  room  or  to  wait 
outside  until  she  left  Browndown  to  return  to  the  rectory, 
when  Lucilla's  keen  sense  of  hearing  decided  the  question 
which  I  had  been  unable  to  settle  for  myself.  The  door  of 
the  room  opened,  and  Oscar  advanced  into  the  hall. 

"Lucilla  insisted  that  she  heard  somebody  outside,"  lie 
said.  "Who  could  have  guessed  it  was  you?  Why  did 
you  wait  in  the  hall  ?  Come  in  !  come  in  !" 

He  held  open  the  door  for  me,  and  I  went  in.  Oscar  an- 
nounced me  to  Lucilla.  "It  was  Madame  Pratolun^o  you 

O  * 

heard,"  he  said.  She  took  no  notice  either  of  him  or  of  me. 
A  heap  of  flowers  from  Oscar's  garden  lay  in  her  lap.  With 
the  help  of  her  clever  lingers  she  was  sorting  them  to  make 
a  nosegay  as  quickly  and  as  tastefully  as  if  she  had  possessed 
the  sense  of  sight.  In  all  my  experience  of  that  charming 
lace  it  had  never  looked  so  hard  as  it  looked  now.  Nobody 
would  have  recognized  her  likeness  to  the  Madonna  of  Ra- 
phael's "picture.  Offended  —  mortally  offended  with  me  —  I 
saw  it  at  a  glance. 

"I  hope  you  will  forgive  my  intrusion,  Lucilla,  when  you 
know  my  motive,"  I  said.  "I  have  followed  you  here  io 
make  my  excuses." 

"Oh,  don't  think  of  making  excuses?"  she  rejoined,  giving 
three  fourths  of  her  attention  to  the  flowers,  and  one  fourth 
to  me.  "It's  a  pity  you  took  the  trouble  of  coming  here. 
I  quite  agree  with  what  you  said  in  the  garden.  Consider- 
ing the  object  I  had  in  view  at  Browndown,!  could  not  pos- 
sibly expect  you  to  accompany  me.  True  !  quite  true!" 

I  kept  my  temper.  Not  thai  I  am  a  patient  woman;  1:0', 

1 


19 1  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

that  I  possess  a  meek  disposition.  Very  far  from  it,  I  regret 
to  say  !  Nevertheless,  I  kept  my  temper — so  far. 

"I  wish  to  apologize  for  what  I  said  in  the  garden,"  I  re- 
sumed. "I  spoke  thoughtlessly,  Liicilla.  It  is  impossible 
that  I  could  intentionally  often d  you." 

I  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  one  of  the  chairs.  The 
whole  of  her  attention  became  absorbed  in  the  breathless  in- 
terest of  making  her  nosegay. 

"  Was  I  offended  ?"  she  said,  addressing  herself  to  the 
flowers.  "Excessively  foolish  of  me,  if  I  was."  She  sudden- 
ly became  conscious  of  my  existence.  "  You  had  a  perfect 
right  to  express  your  opinion,"  she  said,  loftily.  "Accept 
my  excuses  if  I  appeared  to  dispute  it." 

She  tossed  her  pretty  head ;  she  showed  her  brightest 
color;  she  tapped  her  nice  little  foot  briskly  on  the  floor. 
(Oh,  Lucilla!  Lucilla  !)  I  still  kept  my  temper.  More,  by 
this  time  (I  admit),  for  Oscar's  sake  than  for  her  sake.  He 
looked  so  distressed,  poor  fellow — so  painfully  anxious  to  in- 
terfere, without  exactly  knowing  how. 

"My  dear  Lucilla!"  he  began.  "Surely  you  might  an- 
swer Madame  Pratolungo — 

She  petulantly  interrupted  him  with  another  toss  of  the 
head — a  little  higher  than  the  last. 

"I  don't  attempt  to  answer  Madame  Pratolungo!  I  pre- 
fer admitting  that  Madame  Pratolmigo  may  have  been  quite 
right.  I  dare  say  I  am  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  the  first 
man  who  comes  my  way.  I  dare  say  if  I  had  met  your 
brother  before  I  met  you  I  should  have  fallen  in  love  with 
him.  Quite  likely  !" 

"Quite  likely — as  you  say,"  answered  poor  Oscar,  humbly. 
"I  am  sure  I  think  it  very  lucky  for  me  that  you  didn't 
meet  Nugent  first." 

She  threw  her  lapful  of  flowers  away  from  her  on  the  ta- 
ble at  which  she  was  sitting.  She  became  perfectly  furious 
with  him  for  taking  my  side.  I  permitted  myself  (the  poor 
child  could  not  see  it,  remember)  the  harmless  indulgence  of 
a  smile. 

"You  agree  with  Madame  Pratolungo,"  she  said  to  him, 
viciously.  "  Madame  Pratolungo  thinks  your  brother  :i 
much  more  agreeable  man  than  you." 

Humble  Oscar  shook  his  head  in  melaiifholy  acknowledg- 


POOtt    MISo    FINCH.  195 

incut  of  tliis  self-evident  fact.  "There  can  be  no  two  opin- 
ions about  that,"  he  said,  resignedly. 

She  stamped  her  foot  on  the  carpet,  and  raised  quite  a  lit- 
tle cloud  of  dust.  My  lungs  are  occasionally  delicate.  I 
permitted  myself  another  harmless  indulgence — indulgence 
in  a  slight  cough.  She  heard  the  second  indulgence,  and 
suddenly  controlled  herself  the  instant  it  reached  her  ears. 
I  am  afraid  she  took  my  cough  as  my  commentary  on  what 
was  going  on. 

"  Come  here,  Oscar,"  she  said,  with  a  complete  change  of 
tone  and  manner.  "Come  and  sit  down  by  me." 

Oscar  obeyed. 

"Put  your  arm  round  my  waist." 

Oscar  looked  at  me.     Having  the  use  of  his  sight,  he  was 

o  o       * 

sensible  of  the  absurd  side  of  the  demonstration  required  of 
him — in  the  presence  of  a  third  person.  /She,  poor  soul,  strong 
in  her  blind  insensibility  to  all  shafts  of  ridicule  shot  from 
the  eye,  cared  nothing  for  the  presence  of  a  third  person. 
She  repeated  her  commands,  in  a  tone  which  said,  sharply, 
"Embrace  me — I  am  not  to  be  trifled  with  !" 

Oscar  timidly  put  his  arm  round  her  waist — with  an  ap- 
pealing look  at  me.  She  issued  another  command  instantly. 

"  Say  you  love  me." 

Oscar  hesitated. 

"  Say  you  love  me !" 

Oscar  whispered  it. 

"  Out  loud  !" 

Endurance  has  its  limits.  I  began  -to  lose  my  temper. 
She  could  not  have  been  more  superbly  indifferent  to  my 
presence  if  there  had  been  a  cat  in  the  room  instead  of  a 
lady. 

"Permit  me  to  inform  you,"  I  raid,  "that  I  have  not  (as 
you  appear  to  suppose)  left  the  room." 

She  took  no  notice.  She  went  on  with  her  commands,  ris- 
ing irrepressibly  from  one  amatory  climax  to  another. 

"  Give  me  a  kiss  !" 

Unhappy  Oscar — sacrificed  between  us — blushed.  Stop  ! 
Don't  revel  prematurely  in  the  greatest  enjoyment  a  reader 
has — namely,  catching  a  writer  out  in  a  mistake.  I  have  not 
forgotten  that  his  disfigured  complexion  would  prevent  his 
blush  from  showing  on  the  surface.  I  ben  to  sav  I  saw  it 


190  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

under  the  surface — saw  it  in  his  expression.  I  repeat,  he 
blushed. 

I  felt  it  necessary  to  assert  myself  for  the  second  time. 

"I  have  only  one  object  in  remaining  in  the  room,  Miss 
Finch.  I  merely  wish  to  know  whether  you  refuse  to  accept 
my  excuses." 

"  Oscar,  give  me  a  kiss  !" 

He  still  hesitated.  She  threw  her  arm  round  his  neck. 
My  duty  to  myself  was  plain — my  duty  was  to  go. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Dubourg,"  I  said,  and  turned  to  the 
door.  She  heard  me  cross  the  room,  and -called  to  me  to 
stop.  I  paused.  There  was  a  glass  on  the  wall  opposite  to 
me.  On  the  authority  of  the  glass,  I  beg  to  mention  that  I 
paused  in  my  most  becoming  manner.  Grace  tempered  with 
dignity ;  dignity  tempered  with  grace. 

"Madame  Pratolungo !" 

"  Miss  Finch  ?" 

"This  is  the  man  who  is  not  half  so  agreeable  as  his  broth- 
er. Look !" 

She  tightened  her  hold  round  his  neck,  and  gave  him — os- 
tentatiously gave  him — the  kiss  which  he  was  ashamed  to 
give  her.  I  advanced,  in  contemptuous  silence,  to  the  door. 
My  attitude  expressed  disgust  accompanied  by  sorrow ;  sor- 
row accompanied  by  disgust. 

"  Madame  Pratolungo !" 

I  made  no  answer. 

"This  is  the  man  whom  I  should  never  have  loved  if  I  had 
happened  to  meet  his  brother  first.  Look  !" 

She  put  both  arms  round  his  neck,  and  gave  him  a  shower 
of  kisses  all  in  one.  The  door  had  been  imperfectly  closed 
when  I  had  entered  the  room.  It  was  ajar.  I  pulled  it  open 
— walked  out  into  the  hall — and  found  myself  face  to  face 
with  Xugent  Dubourg,  standing  by  the  table,  with  his  let- 
ter from  Liverpool  in  his  hand  !  He  must  have  certainly 
heard  Lucilla  cast  my  own  words  back  in  my  teeth — if  he 
had  heard  no  more. 

I  stopped  short;  looking  at  him  in  silent  surprise.  He 
smiled,  and  held  out  the  open  letter  to  me.  Before  we  could 
speak  we  heard  the  door  of  the  room  closed.  Oscar  had  fol- 
lowed me  out  (shutting  the  door  behind  him)  to  apologize 
for  Lucilla's  behavior  to  me.  lie  explained  what  had  hap- 


roon  MISS  FINCH.  197 

pened  to  his  brother.  Nugent  nodded,  and  tapped  his  open 
letter  smartly.  "Leave  me  to  manage  it.  I  shall  give  you 
something  better  to  do  than  quarreling  among  yourselves. 
You  will  hear  what  it  is  directly.  In  the  mean  time,  I  have 
got  a  message  for  our  friend  at  the  inn.  Gootheridge  is  on 
his  way  here  to  speak  to  me  about  altering  the  stable.  Run 
and  tell  him  I  have  other  business  on  hand,  and  I  can't  keep 
my  appointment  to-day.  Stop!  Give  him  this  at  the  same 
time,  and  ask  him  to  leave  it  at  the  rectory." 

He  took  one  of  his  visiting  cards  out  of  the  case,  wrote  a 
few  lines  on  it  in  pencil,  and  handed  it  to  his  brother.  Os- 
car (always  ready  to  go  on  errands  for  Nugent)  hurried  out 
to  meet  the  landlord.  Nugent  turned  to  me. 

"  The  German  is  in  England,"  he  said.  "  Now  I  may  open 
my  lips." 

"  At  once !"  I  exclaimed. 

"  At  once.  I  have  put  off  my  own  business  (as  you  heard) 
in  favor  of  this.  My  friend  will  be  in  London  to-morrow.  I 
mean  to  get  my  authority  to  consult  him  to-day,  and  to  start 
to-morrow  for  town.  Prepare  yourself  to  meet  one  of  the 
strangest  characters  you  ever  set  eyes  on !  You  saw  me 
write  on  my  card.  It  was  a  message  to  Mr.  Finch,  asking 
him  to  join  us  immediately  (on  important  family  business)  at 
Browndown.  As  Lucilla's  father,  he  has  a  voice  in  the  mat- 
ter. When  Oscar  comes  back,  and  when  the  rector  joins  us, 
our  domestic  privy  council  will  be  complete." 

He  spoke  with  his  customary  spirit;  he  moved  with  his 
customary  briskness:  he  had  become  quite  himself  again 
since  I  had  seen  him  last. 

"  I  am  stagnating  in  this  place,"  he  went  on,  seeing  that  I 
noticed  the  change  in  him.  "It  puts  me  in  spirits  again, 
having  something  to  do.  I  am  not  like  Oscar;  I  must  have 
action  to  stir  my  blood  —  action  to  keep  me  from  fretting 
over  my  anxieties.  How  do  you  think  I  found  the  witness 
to  my  brother's  innocence  at  the  Trial '?  In  that  way.  I  said 
to  myself,  'I  shall  go  mad  if  I  don't  do  something.'  I  did 
something — and  saved  Oscar.  I  am  going  to  do  something 
again.  Mark  my  words!  Now  I  am  stirring  in  it,  Lucilla 
will  recover  her  sight." 

"This  is  a  serious  matter,"  I  said.  "Pray  give  it  serious 
consideration." 


198  POOK   MISS   FINCH. 

"  Consideration  ?"  he  repeated.  "  I  hate  the  word.  I  al- 
ways decide  on  the  instant.  If  I  am  wrong  in  my  view  of 
Lucilla's  case,  consideration  is  of  no  earthly  use.  If  I  am 
right,  every  day's  delay  is  a  day  of  sight  lost  to  the  blind. 
I'll  wait  for  Oscar  and  Mr.  Finch  ;  and  then  I'll  open  the  bus- 
iness. Why  are  we  talking  in  the  hall  ?  Come  in  !" 

He  led  the  way  to  the  sitting-room.  I  had  a  new  interest 
now  in  going  back.  Still  Lucilla's  behavior  hung  on  my 
mind.  Suppose  she  treated  me  with  renewed  coldness  and 
keener  contempt?  I  remained  standing  at  the  table  in  the 
hall.  .Nugent  looked  back  at  me  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Nonsense  !"  he  said.  "  I'll  set  things  right.  It's  beneath 
a  woman  like  you  to  take  notice  of  what  a  girl  says  in  a  pet. 
Come  in.!" 

I  doubt  if  I  should  have  yielded  to  please  any  other  living 
man.  But,  there  is  no  denying  it,  some  people  have  a  mag- 
netic attracting  power  over  others.  Nugent  had  that  power 
over  me.  Against  my  own  will — for  I  was  really  hurt  and 
offended  by  her  usage  of  me — I  went  back  with  him  into  the 
room. 

Lucilla  was  still  sitting  in  the  place  which  she  had  occu- 
pied when  I  withdrew.  On  hearing  the  door  open,  and  a 
man's  footsteps  entering,  she,  of  course,  assumed  that  the 
man  was  Oscar.  She  had  penetrated  his  object  in  leaving 
her  to  follow  me  out,  and  it  had  not  improved  her  temper. 

"  Oh  !"  she  said.  "  You  have  come  back  at  last  ?  I  thought 
you  had  offered  yourself  as  Madame  Pratolungo's  escort  to 
the  rectory."  She  stopped,  with  a  sudden  frown.  Her  quick 
ears  had  detected  my  return  into  the  room.  "  Oscar !"  she 
exclaimed,  "  what  does  this  mean  ?  Madame  Pratolungo  and 
I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  each  other.  What  has  she 
come  back  for?  Why  don't  you  answer?  This  is  infamous! 
I  shall  leave  the  room  !" 

The  utterance  of  that  final  threat  was  followed  so  rapidly 
by  its  execution  that  before  Nugent  (standing  between  her 
and  the  door)  could  get  out  of  her  way  she  came  in  violent 
contact  with  him.  She  instantly  caught  him  by  the  arm, 
and  shook  him  angrily.  "  What  does  your  silence  mean?  Is 
;.t  at  Madame  Pratol  tin  "jo's  instigation  that  you  are  insulting 
me?" 

I  had  just  opened  my  lips  to  make  one  more  attempt  at  rec- 


POOR   MISS    FIXC'H.  199 

onciliation,  by  saying  some  pacifying  words  to  her,  when 
she  planted  that  last  sting  in  me.  French  flesh  and  blood 
(whatever  English  flesh  and  blood  might  have  done)  could 
bear  no  more.  I  silently  turned  my  back  on  her,  in  a  rage. 

At  the  same  moment  Nugent's  eyes  brightened  as  if  a  new 
idea  had  struck  him.  He  gave  me  one  significant  look — and 

o  o 

answered  her  in  his  brother's  character.  Whether  he  was 
possessed  at  the  moment  by  some  demon  of  mischief,  or 
whether  he  had  the  idea  of  trying  to  make  Oscar's  peace  for 
him  before  Oscar  returned,  is  more  than  I  can  say.  I  ought  to 
have  stopped  it,  I  know.  But  my  temper  was  in  a  flame.  I 
was  as  spiteful  as  a  cat  and  as  fierce  as  a  bear.  I  said  to 
myself  (in  your  English  idiom),  She  wants  taking  down  a 
peg;  quite  right,  Mr.  Nugent ;  doit.  Shocking!  shameful! 
no  words  are  bad  enough  for  me:  give  it  me  well.  Ah, 
Heaven!  what  is  a  human  being  in  a  rage?  On  my  sacred 
word  of  honor,  nothing  but  a  human  beast!  The  next  time 
it  happens  to  You,  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass,  and  you  will 
find  your  soul  gone  out  of  you  at  your  face,  and  nothing  left 
but  an  animal — and  a  bad,  a  villainous  bad  animal  too ! 

"You  ask  what  my  silence  means?"  said  Nugent. 

He  had  only  to  model  his  articulation  on  his  brother's 
slower  manner  of  speaking,  as  distinguished  from  his  own,  to 
be  his  brother  himself.  In  saying  those  lew  words  he  did  it 
so  dexterously  that  I  could  have  sworn — if  I  had  not  seen 
him  standing  before  me — Oscar  was  in  the  room. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  ask  that." 

"  I  am  silent,"  he  answered,  "  because  I  am  waiting." 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for?" 

"To  hear  you  make  your  apologies  toMadamcPratolungo." 

She  started  back  a  step.  Submissive  Oscar  was  taking  a 
peremptory  tone  with  her  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  Sub- 
missive Oscar,  instead  of  giving  her  time  to  speak,  sternly 
went  on. 

"  Madame  Pratolungo  has  made  her  excuses  to  yon.  You 
ought  to  receive  them;  you  ought  to  reciprocate  them.  It 
is  distressing  to  see  you  and  hear  von.  You  are  behaving 

O  •>  *  *7» 

ungratefully  to  your  best  friend." 

She  raised  her  face,  she  raised  her  hands,  in  blank  amaze- 
ment: she  looked  as  if  she  distrusted  her  own  ears. 

"Oscar!"  she  exclaimed. 


200  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

"  Here  I  am,"  said  Oscar,  opening  the  door  at  the  same 
moment. 

She  turned  like  lightning  toward  the  place  from  which  he 
had  spoken.  She  detected  the  deception  which  Nugent  had 
practiced  on  her  with  a  cry  of  indignation  that  rang  through 
the  room. 

Oscar  ran  to  her  in  alarm.     She  thrust  him  back  violently. 

"  A  trick  !"  she  cried.  "  A  mean,  vile,  cowardly  trick  play- 
ed upon  my  blindness  !  Oscar !  your  brother  has  been  imita- 
ting you;  your  brother  has  been  speaking  to  me  in  your  voice. 
And  that  woman  who  calls  herself  my  friend — that  woman 
stood  by  and  heard  him,  and  never  told  me.  She  encouraged 
it ;  she  enjoyed  it.  The  wretches  !  Take  me  away  from  them. 
They  are  capable  of  any  deceit.  She  always  hated  you,  dear, 
from  the  first — she  took  up  with  your  brother  the  moment  he 
came  here.  When  you  marry  me,  it  mustn't  be  at  Dimchurch  ; 
it  must  be  in  some  place  they  don't  know  of.  There  is  a  con- 
spiracy between  them  against  you  and  against  me.  Beware 
of  them  !  beware  of  them  !  She  said  I  should  have  fallen  in 
love  with  your  brother  if  I  had  met  him  first.  There  is  a 
deeper  meaning  in  that,  my  love,  than  you  can  see.  It  means 
that  they  will  part  us  if  they  can.  Ha !  I  hear  somebody 
moving!  Has  he  changed  places  with  you?  Is  it  7/owwhom 
I  am  speaking  to  now?  Oh,  my  blindness!  my  blindness! 

0  God !  of  all  your  creatures  the  most  helpless,  the  most 
miserable,  is  the  creature  who  can't  see." 

I  never  heard  any  thing  in  all  my  life  so  pitiable  and  so 
dreadful  as  the  frantic  suspicion  and  misery  which  tore  their 
way  out  from  her  in  those  words.  She  cut  me  to  the  heart. 

1  had  spoken  rashly  —  I  had  behaved  badly;  but  had  I  de- 
served this?     No!  no!  no!    I  had  nut  deserved  it.    I  threw 
myself  into  a  chair  and  burst  out  crying.     My  tears  scalded 
me;  my  sobs  choked  me.     If  I  had  had  poison  in  my  hand,  I 
would  have  drunk  it,  I  was  so  furious  and  so  wretched;  so 
hurt  in  my  honor,  so  wounded  at  my  heart. 

The  only  voice  that  answered  her  was  Nugent's.  Reck- 
less what  the  consequences  might  be — speaking  in  his  own 
proper  person  from  the  opposite  end  of  the  room — he  asked 
the  all-important  question  which  no  human  being  had  ever 
put  to  her  yet. 

''Are  you  sure,  Lucilla,  that  you  are  blind  for  life?" 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  201 

A  dead  silence  followed  the  utterance  of  those  words. 

I  brushed  away  the  tears  from  my  eyes,  and  looked  up. 

Oscar  had  been — as  I  supposed — holding  her  in  his  arms, 
silently  soothing  her,  when  his  brother  spoke.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  I  saw  her  she  had  just  detached  herself  from  him. 
She  advanced  a  step  toward  the  part  of  the  room  in  which 
Nugent  stood,  and  stopped,  with  her  face  turned  toward  him. 
Every  faculty  in  her  seemed  to  be  suspended  by  the  silent 
passage  into  her  mind  of  the  new  idea  that  he  had  called  up. 
Through  childhood,  girlhood,  womanhood,  never  once,  wak- 
ing or  dreaming,  had  the  prospect  of  restoration  to  sight 
presented  itself  within  her  range  of  contemplation  until  now. 
Not  a  trace  was  left  in  her  countenance  of  the  indignation 
which  Nugent  had  roused  in  her  hardly  more  than  a  mo- 
ment since.  Not  a  sign  appeared  indicating  a  return  of  the 
nervous  suffering  which  the  sense  of  his  presence  had  inflict- 
ed on  her  earlier  in  the  day.  The  one  emotion  in  possession 
of  her  was  astonishment — astonishment  that  had  struck  her 
dumb;  astonishment  that  had  waited, helplessly  and  mechan- 
ically, to  hear  more. 

I  observed  Oscar  next.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  Lucilla — 
absorbed  in  watching  her.  He  spoke  to  Nugent  without 
looking  at  him  ;  animated,  as  it  seemed,  by  a  vague  fear  for 
Lucilla,  which  was  slowly  developing  into  a  vague  fear  for 
himself. 

"Mind  what  you  are  doing  !"  he  said.  "Look  at  her,  Nu- 
gent— look  at  her  !" 

Nugent  approached  his  brother  circuitously,  so  as  to  place 
Oscar  between  Lucilla  and  himself. 

"  Have  I  offended  you  ?"  he  asked. 

Oscar  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "  Offended  with  you,"  he 
answered,  "  alter  what  you  have  forgiven  and  what  you  have 
suffered  for  my  sake  ?" 

"Still,"  persisted  the  other,  "there  is  something  wrong/' 

"  I  am  startled,  Nugent." 

"  Startled— by  what  ?" 

"By  the  question  you  have  just  put  to  Lucilla." 

"You  will  understand  me,  and  she  will  understand  me,  di- 
rectly." 

While  those  words  were  passing  between  the  brothers,  my 
attention  remained  fixed  on  Lucilla.  Her  head  had  turned 

T2 


202  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

slowly  toward  the  new  position  which  Nugent  occupied 
when  he  spoke  to  Oscar.  With  this  exception,  no  other 
movement  had  escaped  her.  No  sense  of  what  the  two  men 
were  saying  to  each  other  seemed  to  have  entered  her  mind. 
To  all  appearance,  she  had  heard  nothing  since  Nugent  had 
started  the  first  doubt  in  her  whether  she  was  blind  for  life. 

"  Speak  to  her,"  I  said.  "  For  God's  sake,  don't  keep  her 
in  suspense  now  /" 

Nugent  spoke. 

"You  have  had"  reason  to  be  offended  with  me,  Lucilla. 
Let  me,  if  I  can,  give  you  reason  to  be  grateful  to  me  before 
I  have  done.  When  I  was  in  New  York  I  became  acquaint- 
ed with  a  German  surgeon  who  had  made  a  reputation  and 
a  fortune  in  America  by  his  skill  in  treating  diseases  of  the 
eye.  He  had -been  especially  successful  in  curing  cases  of 
blindness  given  up  as  hopeless  by  other  surgeons.  I  men- 
tioned your  case  to  him.  He  could  say  nothing  positively 
(as  a  matter  of  course)  without  examining  you.  All  he  could 
do  wras  to  place  his  services  at  my  disposal  when  he  came  to 
England.  I,  for  one,  Lucilla,  decline  to  consider  you  blind 
for  life  until  this  skillful  man  sees  no  more  hope  for  you  than 
the  English  surgeons  have  seen.  If  there  is  the  faintest 
chance  still  left  of  restoring  your  sight,  his  is,  I  firmly  be- 
lieve, the  one  hand  that  can  do  it.  He  is  now  in  England. 
Say  the  word,  and  I  will  bring  him  to  Dimchurch." 

She  slowly  lifted  her  hands  to  her  head,  and  held  it  as  if 
she  was  holding  her  reason  in  its  place.  Her  color  changed 
from  pale  to  red — from  red  to  pale  once  more.  She  drew  a 
long,  deep,  heavy  breath,  and  dropped  her  hands  again,  re- 
covering from  the  shock.  The  change  that  followed  held  us 

o  o 

all  three  breathless.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  her.  It  was 
awful  to  see  her.  A  mute  ecstasy  of  hope  transfigured  her 
face;  a  heavenly  smile  played  serenely  on  her  lips.  She  was 
among  us,  and  yet  apart  from  us.  In  the  still  light  of  even- 
in"1,  shining  in  on  her  from  the  window,  she  stood  absorbed 

~  /  O  * 

in  her  own  rapture — the  silent  creature  of  another  sphere ! 
There  was  a  moment  when  she  overcame  me  with  admira- 
tion, and  another  moment  when  she  overcame  me  with  fear. 
Both  the  n;en  felt  it.  Both  signed  to  me  to  speak  to  her  first. 
I  advanced  a  few  steps.  I  tried  to  consider  with  myself 
what  I  should  say.  It  was  useless.  I  could  neither  think 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  203 

nor  speak.  I  could  only  look  at  her.  I  could  only  say, 
nervously, 

"  Lucilla." 

She  came  back  to  the  world — she  came  back  to  tis — with 
a  little  start,t  and  a  faint  flush  of  color  in  her  cheeks.  She 
turned  herself  toward  the  place  from  which  I  had  spoken, 
and  whispered, 

"  Come." 

In  a  moment  my  arms  were  round  her.  Her  head  sank  on 
my  bosom.  We  were  reconciled  without  a  word.  Wj  were 
friends  again,  sisters  again,  in  an  instant. 

"Have  I  been  fainting?  have  I  been  sleeping?"  she  said 
to  me,  in  faint,  bewildered  tones.  "Am  I  just  awake?  Is 
this  Browndown  ?"  She  suddenly  lifted  her  head.  "  Nu- 
gent !  are  you  there  ?" 

"  Yes." 

She  gently  withdrew  herself  from  me,  and  approached  NIH 
gent. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me  just  now?  Was  it  you  w-ho  put 
the  doubt  into  my  mind  whether  I  am  really  doomed  to  be 
blind  for  life?  Surely  I  have  not  fancied  it?  Surely  you 
said  the  man  was  coming,  and  the  time  coming?"  Her  voice 
suddenly  rose.  "The  man  who  may  cure  me!  the  time 
when  I  may  see  !" 

"I  said  it,  Lucilla.     I  meant  it,  Lucilla  !" 

"Oscar!  Oscar!!  Oscar!!!" 

I  stepped  forward  to  lead  her  to  him.  Nugent  touched 
me,  and  pointed  to  Oscar,  as  I  took  her  hand.  He  was  stand- 
ing before  the  glass,  with  an  expression  of  despair  which  I 
see  again  while  I  write  these  lines — he  was  standim*  close  to 

CP  O 

the  glass,  looking  in  silence  at  the  hideous  reflection  of  his 
face.  In  sheer  pity,  I  hesitated  to  take  her  to  him.  She 
stepped  forward,  and,  stretching  out  her  hand,  touched  his 
shoulder.  The  reflection  of  her  charming  face  appeared 
above  his  face  in  the  glass.  She  bent  gayly  over,  with  both 
hands  on  him,  and  said,  "  The  time  is  coming,  my  darling, 
when  I  may  sec  You  !" 

With  a  cry  of  joy,  she  drew  his  face  up  to  her  and  kissed 
him  on  the  forehead.  His  head  fell  on  his  breast  when  she 
released  it;  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  stifled, 
for  the  moment,  all  outward  expression  of  the  pang  that 


204  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

wrung  him.  I  drew  her  rapidly  away,  before  her  quick  sen- 
sibilities had  time  to  warn  her  that  something  was  wron<>-. 

o  o 

Even  as  it  w7as,  she  resisted  me.  Even  as  it  was,  she  asked, 
suspiciously,  "Why  do  you  take  me  away  from  him?" 

What  excuse  could  I  make?     I  was  at  my  wit's  end. 

She  repeated  the  question.  For  once  Fortune  favored  us. 
A  timely  knock  at  the  door  stopped  her  just  as  she  was  try- 
ing to  release  herself  from  me.  "  Somebody  coming  in,"  I 
said.  The  servant  entered  as  I  spoke  with  a  letter  from  the 
rectory. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-NINTH. 

PARLIAMENTARY    SUMMARY. 

On,  the  welcome  interruption.  After  the  agitation  that 
\ve  had  suffered  we  all  stood  equally  in  need  of  some  such  re- 
lief as  this.  It  was  absolutely  a  luxury  to  fall  back  again 
into  the  commonplace  daily  routine  of  life.  I  asked  to  whom 
the  letter  was  addressed.  Nugent  answered,  "  The  letter  is 
addressed  to  me ;  and  the  writer  is  Mr.  Finch." 

Having  read  the  letter,  he  turned  to  Lucilla. 

"  I  sent  a  message  to  your  father,  asking  him  to  join  us 
here,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Finch  writes  back  to  say  that  his  duties 
keep  him  at  home,  and  to  suggest  that  the  rectory  is  the  fitter 
place  for  the  discussion  of  family  matters.  Have  you  any 
objection  to  return  to  the  house  ?  And  do  you  mind  going 
on  first  with  Madame  Pratoliingo?" 

O 

Lucilla's  quick  suspicion  was  instantly  aroused. 

"Why  not  with  Oscar?"  she  asked. 

"  Your  father's  note  suggests  to  me,"  replied  Nugent,  "  that 
he  is  a  little  hurt  at  the  short  notice  I  gave  him  of  our  dis- 
cussion here.  I  thought  —  if  you  and  Madame  Pratolungo 
went  on  first — that  you  might  make  our  peace  with  the  rec- 
tor, and  assure  him  that  we  meant  no  disrespect,  before  Os- 
car and  I  appeared.  Don't  you  think  yourself  you  would 
make  it  easier  for  ?<s,  if  you  did  that?" 

Having  contrived  in  this  dexterous  way  to  separate  Oscar 
and  Lucilla,  and  to  gain  time  for  composing  and  fortifying 
his  brother  before  they  met  again,  Nugent  opened  the  door 
for  us  to  go  out.  Lucilla  and  I  left  the  twins  together  in  the 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  205 

modest  little  room  which  had  witnessed  a  scene  alike  memo- 
rable to  all  of  us  for  its  interest  at  the  time,  and  for  the  re- 
sults which  were  to  come  of  it  in  the  future. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  were  all  assembled  at  the  rectory. 

Our  adjourned  debate  —  excepting  one  small  suggestion 
emanating  from  myself — wu,s  a  debate  which  led  to  nothing 
It  may  be  truly  described  as  resolving  itself  into  the  delivery 
of  an  Oration  by  Mr.  Finch.  Subject,  the  assertion  of  Mr. 
Finch's  dignity. 

On  this  occasion  (having  matters  of  more  importance  on- 
hand)  I  take  the  liberty  of  cutting  the  reverend  gentleman's 
speech  by  the  pattern  of  the  reverend  gentleman's  stature. 
Short  in  figure,  the  rector  shall  be  here,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  short  in  language  too. 

Reverend  Finch  rose  and  said — he  objected  to  every  thing. 
To  receiving  a  message  on  a  card  instead  of  a  proper  note. 
To  being  expected  to  present  himself  at  Browndown  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice.  To  being  the  last  person  informed  (instead 
of  the  first)  of  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg's  exaggerated  and  ab- 
surd view  of  the  case  of  his  afflicted  child.  To  the  German 
surgeon,  as  being  certainly  a  foreigner  and  a  stranger,  and 
possibly  a  quack.  To  the  slur  implied  on  British  Surgery  by 
bringing  the  foreigner  to  Dimchureh.  To  the  expense  in- 
volved in  the  same  proceeding.  Finally,  to  the  whole  scope 
and  object  of  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg's  proposal,  which  had  for 
its  origin  rebellion  against  the  decrees  of  an  all-wise  Provi- 
dence, and  for  its  result  the  disturbance  of  his  daughter's 
mind — "  under  My  influence,  Sir,  a  mind  in  a  state  of  Chris- 
tian resignation  :  under  Your  influence,  a  mind  in  a  state  of 
infidel  revolt."  With  those  concluding  remarks,  the  rev- 
erend gentleman  sat  down — and  paused  for  a  reply. 

A  remarkable  result  followed,  which  might  be  profitably 
permitted  to  take  place  in  some  other  Parliaments.  Nobody 
replied. 

Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg  rose— no!  sat — and  said  he  declined 
to  take  any  part  in  the  proceedings.  lie  was  quite  ready  to 
wait  until  the  end  justified  the  means  which  he  proposed  to 
employ.  For  the  rest,  his  conscience  was  at  ease;  and  lie 
was  entirely  at  Miss  Finch's  service.  (Memorandum  in  pa- 
renthesis: Mr.  Finch  might  not  have  got  oft*  so  easily  as  this 


206  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

but  for  one  circumstance.  I  have  already  mentioned  it  as 
part  of  the  strange  constraint  which  Lucilla  innocently  im- 
posed on  Nugent  that  her  father  could  always  talk  him  down 
in  her  presence.  She  was  present  on  this  occasion.  And 
Reverend  Finch  reaped  the  benefit.) 

Mr.  Oscar  Dubourg,  sitting  hidden  from  notice  behind  his 
brother,  followed  his  brother's  example.  The  decision  in  the 
'matter  under  discussion  rested  with  Miss  Finch  alone.  He 
hud  no  opinion  of  his  own  to  offer  in  it. 

Miss  Finch  herself,  appealed  to  next:  Had  but  one  reply 
to  give.  If  her  whole  fortune  was  involved  in  testing  her 
chance  of  recovering  her  sight,  she  would  cheerfully  sacrifice 
her  whole  fortune  to  that  one  object.  With  all  possible  re- 
spect to  her  father,  she  ventured  to  think  that  neither  he  nor 
any  one  possessing  the  sense  of  vision  could  quite  enter  into 
her  feelings  as  the  circumstances  then  were.  She  entreated 
Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg  not  to  lose  one  unnecessary  moment  in 
bringing  the  German  surgeon  to  Di fn church. 

Mrs.  Finch,  called  upon  next.  Spoke  after  some  little  delay, 
caused  by  the  loss  of  her  pocket-handkerchief.  Would  not 
presume  to  differ  in  opinion  with  her  husband,  whom  she  had 
never  yet  known  to  be  otherwise  than  perfectly  right  about 
every  thing.  But,  if  the  German  surgeon  did  come,  and  if  Mr. 
Finch  saw  no  objection  to  it,  she  would  much  like  to  consult 
him  (gratis,  if  possible)  on  the  subject  of  "baby's  eyes." 
Mrs.  Finch  was  proceeding  to  explain  that  there  was  happily 
nothing  the  matter,  that  she  could  see,  with  the  infant's  eyes 
at  that  particular  moment,  and  that  she  merely  wished  to 
take  a  skilled  medical  opinion,  in  the  event  of  something 
happening  on  some  future  occasion,  when  she  was  called  to 
order  by  Mr.  Finch.  The  reverend  gentleman,  at  the  same 
time,  appealed  to  Madame  Pratolungo  to  close  the  debate  by 
giving  frank  expression  to  her  own  opinion.  • 

Madame  Pratolungo,  speaking  in  conclusion,  remarked': 

That  the  question  of  consulting  the  German  surgeon  ap- 
peared (after  what  had  fallen  from  Miss  Finch)  to  be  a  ques- 
tion which  had  passed  beyond  the  range  of  any  expression 
of  feeling  on  the  part  of  other  persons.  That  she  proposed, 
accordingly,  to  look  beyond  the  consultation  at  the  results 
which  might  follow  it.  That,  contemplating  these  possible 
results,  she  held  very  strong  views  of  her  own,  and  would 


POOR    MISS    PINCH.  207 

proceed  to  give  frank  expression  to  them  as  follows.  That, 
in  her  opinion,  the  proposed  investigation  of  the  chanceu 
which  might  exist  of  restoring  Miss  Finch's  sight  involved 
consequences  far  too  serious  to  be  trusted  to  the  decision  of 
any  one' man,  no  matter  how  skillful  or  how  famous  he  might 
be.  That,  in  pursuance  of  this  view,  she  begged  to  suggest 
(l)  the  association  of  an  eminent  English  oculist  with  the 
eminent  German  oculist;  (2)  an  examination  of  Miss  Finch's 
case  by  both  the  professional  gentlemen,  consulting  on  it  to- 
gether; and  (3)  a  full  statement  of  the  opinions  at  which 
they  might  respectively  arrive  to  be  laid  before  the  meeting 
now  assembled,  and  to  become  the  subject  of  a  renewed  dis- 
cussion, before  any  decisive  measures  were  taken.  Lastly, 
that  this  proposal  be  now  submitted  in  the  form  of  a  resolu- 
tion, and  forthwith  (if  necessary)  put  to  the  vote. 

Resolution,  as  above,  put  to  the  vote. 

Majority — Ayes. 

Miss  Finch. 

Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg. 

o  o 

Mr.  Oscar  Dubourg. 

Madame  Pratolungo. 
Minority — Noes. 

No  (on  the  score  of  expense),  Mr.  Finch. 
No  (because  Mr.  F.  says  No),  Mrs.  Finch. 
Resolution  carried  by  a  majority  of  two.    Debate  adjourn- 
ed to  a  day  to  be  hereafter  decided  on. 

Bv  the  first  train  the  next  morning  Nugent  Dubourg  start- 

•>  o  o  o 

ed  for  London. 

At  luncheon,  the  same  day,  a  telegram  arrived  reporting 
his  proceedings  in  the  following  terms: 

"  I  have  seen  my  friend.  lie  is  at  our  service.  He  is  also 
quite  willing  to  consult  with  any  English  oculist  whom  we 
may  choose.  I  am  just  off  to  find  the  man.  Expect  a  sec- 
ond telegram  later  in  the  day." 

The  second  telegram  reached  us  in  the  evening,  and  ran 
thus : 

"  Every  tiling  is  settled.  The  German  oculist  and  the  En- 
glish oculist  leave  London  with  me  by  the  twelve-forty  train 
to-morrow  afternoon." 

Aftc r .reading  this  telegram  to  Lucilla  T  sent  it  to  Oscar  at 


208  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

Browndown.     Judge  for  yourself  how  he  slept,  and  how  ice 
slept,  that  night. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTIETH. 

HERE    GROSSE. 

SEVERAL  circumstances  deserving  to  be  mentioned  here 
took  place  in  the  early  part  of  the  day  on  which  we  expected 
the  visit  of  the  two  oculists.  I  have  all  the  will  to  relate 
them,  but  the  capacity  to  do  it  completely  fails  me. 

When  I  look  back  at  that  eventful  morning  I  recall  a  scene 
of  confusion  and  suspense,  the  bare  recollection  of  which 
seems  to  upset  my  mind  again,  even  at  this  distance  of  time. 
Things  and  persons  all  blend  distractedly  one  with  another. 
I  see  the  charming  figure  of  my  blind  Lucilla,  robed  in  rose- 
color  and  white,  flitting  hither  and  thither,  in  the  house  and 
out  of  the  house — at  one  time  mad  with  impatience  for  the 
arrival  of  the  surgeons;  at  another,  shuddering  with  appre- 
hension of  the  coming  ordeal,  and  the  coming  disappoint- 
ment which  might  follow.  A  moment  more,  and,  just  as  my 
mind  has  seized  it,  the  fair  figure  melts  and  merges  into  the 
miserable  apparition  of  Oscar,  hovering  and  hesitating  be- 
tween Browndown  and  the  rectory,  painfully  conscious  of 
the  new  complications  introduced  into  his  position  toward 
Lucilla  by  the  new  state  of  things,  and  yet  not  man  enough, 
even  yet,  to  seize  the  opportunity  and  set  himself  right.  An- 
other moment  passes,  and  a  new  figure  —  a  little  strutting, 
consequential  figure — forces  its  way  into  the  foreground  be-- 
fore I  am  ready  for  it.  I  hear  a  big  voice  booming  in  my 
ear,  with  big  language  to  correspond.  "No,  Madame  Prato- 
lungo,  nothing  will  induce  me  to  sanction  by  my  presence 
this  insane  medical  consultation,  this  extravagant  and  pro- 
fane attempt  to  reverse  the  decrees  of  an  all-wise  Providence 
by  purely  human  means.  My  foot  is  down — I  use  the  Ian 
guage  of  the  people,  observe,  to  impress  it  the  more  strongly 
on  your  mind — MY  FOOT  is  down  !"  Another  moment  yet, 
and  Finch  and  Finch's  Foot  disappear  over  my  mental  hori- 
zon just  as  7ny  eye  has  caught  them.  Damp  Mrs.  Finch 
and  the  baby,  whose  everlasting  programme  is  suction  and 
sleep,  take  the  vacant  place.  Mrs.  Finch  pledges  me  with 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  209 

watery  earnestness  to  secrecy,  and  then  confides  her  inten- 
tion of  escaping  her  husband's  supervision  if  she  can,  and 
bringing  British  surgery  and  German  surgery  to  bear  both 
together  (gratis)  on  baby's  eyes.  Conceive  these  persons  all 
twisting  and  turning  in  the  convolutions  of  my  brains,  as  if 
those  brains  were  a  labyrinth,  with  the  sayings  and  doings 
of  one  confusing  themselves  with  the  sayings  and  doings 
of  the  other — with  a  thin  stream  of  my  own  private  anxieties 
(comprehending  luncheon  on  a  side-table  for  the  doctors) 
trickling  at  intervals  through  it  all — and  you  will  not  won- 
der if  I  take  a  jump,  like  a  sheep,  over  some  six  hours  of  pre- 
cious time,  and  present  my  solitary  self  to  your  eye,  posted 
alone  in  the  sitting-room  to  receive  the  council  of  surgeons 
on  its  arrival  at  the  house. 

I  had  but  two  consolations  to  sustain  me. 

First,  a  Mayonnaise  of  chicken  of  my  own  making  on  the 
luncheon-table,  which,  as  a  work  of  Art,  was  simply  adorable 
— I  say  no  more.  Secondly,  my  green  silk  dress,  trimmed 
with  my  mother's  famous  lace — another  work  of  Art,  equally 
adorable  with  the  first.  Whether  I  looked  at  the  luncheon- 
table,  or  whether  L  looked  in  the  glass,  I  could  feel  that  I 
worthily  asserted  my  nation  ;  I  could  say  to  myself,  Even  in 
this  remote  corner  of  the  earth  the  pilgrim  of  civilization 
searching  for  the  elegant  luxuries  of  life  looks  and  sees — 
France  supreme ! 

The  clock  chimed  the  quarter  past  three.  Lucilla,  wearying 
for  the  hundredth  time  of  waiting  in  her  own  room,  put  her 
head  in  at  the  door,  and  still  repeated  the  never-changing 
question, 

"No  signs  of  them  yet?" 

"  None,  my  love." 

"Oh,  how  much  longer  will  they  keep  us  waiting!" 

"Patience,  Lucilla — patience  !" 

She  disappeared  again  with  a  weary  sigh.  Five  minutes 
more  passed,  and  old  Zillah  peeped  into  the  room  next. 

"  Here  they  are,  ma'am,  in  a  chaise  at  the  gate  !" 

I  shook  out  the  skirts  of  my  green  silk,  I  cast  a  last  in- 
spiriting glance  at  the  Mayonnaise.  N agent's  cheerful  voice 
reached  us  from  the  garden, conducting  the  strangers.  "This 
way,  gentlemen — follow  me."  A  pause.  Steps  outside.  The 
door  opened.  Nugent  brought  them  in. 


210  TOOK    MISS   FINCH. 

He  IT  Grosse,  from  America.     Mr.  Sebright,  of  London. 

The  German  gave  a  little  start  when  my  name  was  men- 
tioned. The  Englishman  remained  perfectly  unaffected  by 
it.  II err  Grosse  had  heard  of  my  glorious  Pratolungo.  Mr. 
Sebright  was  barbarously  ignorant  of  his  existence.  I  shall 
describe  He  IT  Grosse  first,  and  shall  take  the  greatest  pains 
with  him. 

A  squat,  broad,  sturdy  body,  waddling  on  a  pair  of  short 
bandy  -  legs  ;  slovenly,  shabby,  unbrushed  clothes  ;  a  big, 
square,  bilious-yellow  face,  surmounted  by  a  mop  of  thick 
iron-gray  hair;  dark  beetle-brows;  a  pair  of  staring,  fierce, 
black,  goggle  eyes,  with  huge  circular  spectacles  standing  up 
like  fortifications  in  front  of  them  ;  a  shaggy  beard  and  mus- 
tache of  mixed  black,  white,  and  gray ;  a  prodigious  cameo 
ring  on  the  forefinger  of  one  hairy  hand ;  the  other  hand  al- 
ways in  and  out  of  a  deep  silver  snuff-box  like  a  small  tea- 
caddy ;  a  rough,  rasping  voice;  a  diabolically  humorous 
smile;  a  curtly  confident  way  of  speaking;  resolution,  inde- 
pendence, power,  expressed  all  over  him  from  head  to  foot — 
there  is  the  portrait  of  the  man  who  held  in  his  hands  (if 
Nugent  was  to  be  trusted)  the  restoration  ot'Lucilla's  sight! 

The  English  oculist  was  as  unlike  his  German  colleague  as 
it  is  possible  for  one  human  being  to  be  to  another. 

Mr.  Sebright  was  slim  and  spare,  and  scrupulously  (pain- 
fully) clean  and  neat.  His  smooth  light  hair  was  carefully 
parted;  his  well-shaved  face  exhibited  two  little  crisp  mor- 
sels of  whisker  about  two  inches  long,  and  no  hair  more. 
His  decent  black  clothes  were  perfectly  made ;  he  wore  no 
ornaments,. not  even  a  watch-chain;  he  moved  deliberately; 
he  spoke  gravely  and  quietly;  disciplined  attention  looked 
coldly  at  you  out  of  his  light  gray  eyes,  and  said,  Here  I  am 
if  you  want  me,  in  every  movement  of  his  thin,  finely  <"»it  lips. 
A  thoroughly  capable  man,  beyond  all  doubt — but  defend  me 
from  accidentally  sitting  next  to  him  at  dinner,  or  traveling 
with  him  for  my  only  companion  on  a  long  journey  ! 

I  received  these  distinguished  persons  with  my  best  grace. 
He  IT  Grosse  complimented  me  in  return  on  my  illustrious 
name,  and  shook  hands.  Mr.  Sebright  said  it  was  a  beautiful 
day,  and  bowed.  The  German,  the  moment  he  was  at  liberty 
to  look  about  him,  looked  at  the  luncheon-table.  The  En- 
glishman looked  out  of  window. 


PCOK    MISS    FINCH.  211 

"Will  you  take  some  refreshment,  gentlemen?" 

He rr  G rosso  nodded  his  shock  head  in  high  approval.  His 
wild  eyes  glared  greedily  at  the  Mayonnaise  through  his 
prodigious  spectacles.  "Aha!  I  like  that,"  said  the  illustri- 
ous surgeon,  pointing  at  the  dish  with  his  ringed  forefinger. 
"You  know  how  to  make  him — you  make  him  with  creams. 
Is  he  chickens  or  lobsters?  I  like  lobsters  best,  but  chick- 
ens is  goot  too.  The  garnish  is  lofely — anchovy,  olive,  beet- 
roots; brown,  green,  red  on  the  fat  white  sauce.  This  I  call 
a  heavenly  dish.  He  is  nice-cool  in  two  different  ways — 
nice-cool  to  the  eye,  nice-cool  to  the  taste.  Soh  !  we  will 
break  into  his  inside.  Madame  Pratolungo,  you  shall  begin. 
Here  goes  for  the  liver-wings  !" 

In  this  extraordinary  English — turning  words  in  the  sin- 
gular into  words  in  the  plural,  and  banishing  from  the  British 
vocabulary  the  copulative  conjunction  "and" — Herr  Grosse 
announced  his  readiness  to  sit  down  to  lunch.  He  was  po- 
litely recalled  from  the  Mayonnaise  to  the  patient  by  his 
discreet  English  colleague. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Sebright.  "Would  it  not 
be  advisable  to  see  the  young  lady  before  we  do  any  thing 
else  ?  I  am  obliged  to  return  to  London  by  the  next  train." 

Herr  Grosse — with  a  fork  in  one  hand  and  a  spoon  in  the 
.other,  and  a  napkin  tied  round  his  neck — stared  piteously, 
shook  his  shock  head,  and  turned  his  back  on  the  Mayon- 
naise, with  a  heavy  heart  at  parting. 

uGoot.  We  shall  do  our  works  first :  then  eat  our  lunches 
afterward.  Where  is  the  patients?  Come-begin-bcgin !" 
He  removed  the  napkin,  blew  a  sigh  (there  is  no  other  way 
of  expressing  it),  and  plunged  his  finger  and  thumb  into  his 
tea-caddy  snuff-box.  "Where  is  the  patients?"  he  repeated, 
irritably.  "  AVhy  is  she  not  close-handy  in  here?" 

"She  is  waiting  in  the  next  room,"  I  said.  "I  will  bring 
her  in  directly.  You  will  make  allowances  for  her,  gentle- 
men, I  am  sure,  if  you  find  her  a  little  nervous?"  I  added, 
looking  at  both  the  oculists.  Silent  Mr.  Sebright  bowed. 
Herr  Grosse  grinned  diabolically,  and  said,  "Make  your 
mind  easy,  my  goot  creature.  I  am  not  such  a  brutes  as  I 
look !" 

"Where  is  Oscar?"  asked  Nugent,  as  I  passed  him  on  my 
way  to  Lucilla's  room. 


212  POOR   MISS   FIXCH. 

"  After  altering  his  mind  a  dozen  times  at  least,"  I  replied, 
"  lie  has  decided  on  not  being  present  at  the  examination." 

I  had  barely  said  the  words  before  the  door  opened,  and 
Oscar  entered  the  room.  He  had  altered  his  mind  for  the 
thirteenth  time — and  here  he  was,  as  the  result  of  it! 

He  IT  Grosse  burst  out  with  an  exclamation  in  his  own  lan- 
guage at  the  sight  of  Oscar's  face.  "  Ach  Gott !"  lie  ex- 
claimed, "he  has  been  taking  Nitrates  of  Silvers.  His  com- 
plexions is  spoilt.  Poor  boys!  poor  boys!"  He  shook  his 
shaggy  head — turned — and  spat  compassionately  into  a  cor- 
ner of  the  room.  Oscar  looked  offended  ;  Mr.  Sebright  look- 
ed disgusted ;  Nugent  thoroughly  enjoyed  it.  I  left  the 
room,  and  closed  the  door  behind  me. 

I  had  not  taken  two  steps  in  the  corridor  when  I  heard 
the  door  opened  again.  Looking  back  directly,  I  found  my- 
self, to  my  amazement,  face  to  face  with  Herr  Grosse — star- 
ing ferociously  at  me  through  his  spectacles,  and  offering  me 
his  arm. 

"Hosh!"  said  the  famous  oculist,  in  a  heavy  whisper. 
"Say  nothing  to  nobody.  I  am  come  to  help  you." 

"  To  help  me  ?"  I  repeated. 

Herr  Grosse  nodded  vehemently — so  vehemently  that  his 
prodigious  spectacles  hopped  up  and  down  on  his  nose. 

"What  did  you  tell  me  just  now?"  he  asked.  "You  told 
me  the  patients  was  nervous.  Goot !  I  am  come  to  go  with 
you  to  the  patients,  and  help  you  to  fetch  her.  Soh !  soh  ! 
I  am  not  such  a  brutes  as  I  look.  Come-begin-begin  !  Where 
is  she  ?" 

I  hesitated  for  a  moment  about  introducing  this  remarka- 
ble embassador  into  Lucilla's  bedroom.  One  look  at  him  de- 
cided me.  After  all,  he  was  a  doctor  —  and  such  an  ugly 
one !  I  took  his  arm. 

We  went  together  into  Lucilla's  room.  She  started  up 
from  the  sofa  on  which  she  was  reclining  when  she  heard 
the  strange  footsteps  entering  side  by  side  with  mine. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  she  cried. 

"It  is  me,  my  dears,"  said  Herr  Grosse.  "Ach  Gott! 
what  a  pretty  girls!  Here  is  jost  the  complexions  I  like — 
nice-fair!  nice-fair!  I  am  cotne  to  see  what  I  can  do,  my 
pretty  miss,  for  this  eyes  of  yours.  If  I  can  let  the  light  in 
on  you — hey?  you  will  lofe  mo,  won't  you?  You  will  kccs 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  213 

even  an  ugly  Germans  like  me.  Soh  !  Come  under  my 
arm.  We  will  go  back  into  the  odder  rooms.  There  is  an- 
odder  one  waiting  to  let  the  light  in  too  —  Mr.  Sebrights. 
Two  surgeon-optic  to  one  pretty  miss — English  surgeon-oj>- 
tic;  German  surgeon-optic — hey!  between  us  we  shall  cure 
this  nice  girls.  Madame  Pratolungo,  here  is  my  odder  arms 
at  your  service.  Hey!  what?  You  look  at  my  coat  sleeve. 
He  is  shabby-greasy — I  am  ashamed  of  him.  No  matter! 
You  have  got  Mr.  Sebrights  to  look  at  in  the  odder  rooms. 
He  is  spick-span, beautiful-new.  Come!  Forwards!  Marsch!" 

Nugent,  waiting  in  the  corridor,  threw  the  door  open  for 
us.  "  Isn't  he  delightful  ?"  Nugent  whispered  behind  me, 
pointing  to  his  friend.  Escorted  by  He  IT  Grosse,  we  made 
a  magnificent  entry  into  the  room.  Our  German  doctor  had 
done  Lucilla  good  already.  The  examination  was  relieved 
of  all  its  embarrassments  and  its  terrors  at  the  outset.  Herr 
Grosse  had  made  her  laugh — Herr  Grosse  had  set  her  com- 
pletely at  her  case. 

Mr.  Scbright  and  Oscar  were  talking  together  in  a  perfect- 
ly friendly  way  when  we  returned  to  the  sitting-room.  The 
reserved  Englishman  appeared  to  have  his  attraction  for  the 
shy  Oscar.  Even  Mr.  Sebright  was  struck  by  Lucilla.  His 
cold  face  lit  up  with  interest  when  he  was  presented  to  her. 
He  placed  a  chair  for  her  in  front  of  the  window.  There 
was  a  warmth  in  his  tone  which  I  had  not  heard  yet  when 
he  begged  her  to  be  seated  in  that  place.  She  took  the 
chair.  Mr.  Sebright  thereupon  drew  back,  and  bowed  to 
Herr  Grosse,  with  a  courteous  wave  of  his  hand  toward  Lu- 
cilla which  signified,"  You  first!" 

Herr  Grosse  met  this  advance  with  a  counter  wave  of  the 
hand,  and  a  vehement  shake  of  his  shock  head,  which  signi- 
fied, "  I  couldn't  think  of  such  a  thing  !" 

"Pardon  me,"  entreated  Mr.  Sebright.  "As  my  senior,  as 
a  visitor  to  England,  as  a  master  in  our  art." 

Herr  Grosse  responded  by  regaling  himself  with  three 
pinches  of  snuff  in  rapid  succession — a  pinch  .is  senior,  a 
pinch  as  visitor  to  England,  a  pinch  as  master  in  the  art.  An 
awful  pause  followed.  Neither  of  the  surgeons  would  take 
precedence  of  the  other.  Nugent  interfered. 

"Miss  Finch  is  waiting,"  lie  said.  "Come,  Grosse,  you 
were  first  presented  to  her.  You  examine  her  first." 


214  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

He  IT  Grosse  took  Nugcnt's  ear  between  his  finger  and 
thumb,  and  gave  it  a  good-humored  pinch.  "You  clever 
boys!"  he  said.  "You  have  the  right  word  always  at  the 
tips  of  your  -tongue."  He  waddled  to  Lucilla's  chair,  and 
stopped  short  with  a  scandalized  look.  Oscar  was  bending 
over  her,  and  whispering  to  her  with  her  hand  in  his.  "  Hey ! 
what?"  cried  Herr  .Grosse.  "Is  this  a  third  surgeon-optic! 
What,  Sir?  you  treat  young  miss's  eyes  by  taking  hold  of 
young  miss's  hand?  You  are  a  Quack.  Get  out!"  Oscar 
withdrew — not  very  graciously.  Herr  Grosse  took  a  chair 
in  front  of  Lucilla,  and  removed  his  spectacles.  As  a  short- 
sighted man,  he  had  necessarily  excellent  eyes  for  all  objects 
which  were  sufficiently  near  to  him.  He  bent  forward,  with 
his  face  close  to  Lucilla's,  and  parted  her  eyelids  alternately, 
with  his  finger  and  thumb,  peering  attentively  first  into  one 
eye,  then  into  the  other. 

It  was  a  moment  of  breathless  interest.  Who  could  say 
v.'hat  an  influence  on  her  future  life  might  be  exercised  by 
this  quaint,  kindly,  uncouth  little  foreign  man?  How  anx- 
iously we  watched  those  shaggy  eyebrows,  those  piercing 
goggle  eyes!  And,  O  Heavens!  how  disappointed  we  were 
at  the  first  result !  Lucilla  suddenly  gave  a  little  irrepressi- 
ble shudder  of  disgust.  Herr  Grosse  drew  back  from  her, 
and  glared  at  her  benignantly  with  his  diabolical  smile. 

"Aha!"  he  said.  "I  see  what  it  is.  I  snuff,  I  smoke,  I 
reek  of  tobaccos.  The  pretty  miss  smells  me.  She  says  in 
her  inmost  heart — Ach  Gott,  how  he  stink  !" 

Lucilla  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter.  Herr  Grosse,  unaffect- 
edly amused  on  his  side,  grinned  with  delight,  and  snatched 
her  handkerchief  out  of  her  apron  pocket.  "Gif  me  scents," 
said  this  excellent  German.  "I  shall  stop  up  her  nose  with 
her  handkerchiefs.  So  she  will  not  smell  my  tobacco-stinks  — 
all  will  be  nice-right  again — we  shall  go  on."  I  gave  him 
some  lavender-water  from  a  scent-bottle  on  the  table.  He 
gravely  drenched  the  handkerchief  with  it,  and  popped  it  sud- 
denly on  Lucilla's  nose.  "Hold  him  there,  miss.  You  can 
not  for  the  life  of  you  smell  Grosse  now.  Goot !  We  may 
go  on  again." 

He  took  a  magnifying-glass  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
and  waited  till  Lucilla  had  fairly  exhausted  herself 'with 
laughing.  Then  the  examination— so  cruelly  grotesque  in 


POOU    MISS    FINCH.  217 

itself,  so  terribly  serious  in  the  issues  which  it  involved — re- 
sumed its  course:  Ilerr  Grosse  glaring  at  his  patient  through 
his  magnify  ing-glass;  Lucilla  leaning  back  in  the  chair,  hold- 
ing the  handkerchief  over  her  nose. 

A  minute  or  more  passed,  and  the  ordeal  of  the  examina- 
tion came  to  au  end. 

Ilerr  Grosse  put  back  his  magnifying-glass  with  a  grunt 
which  sounded  like  a  grunt  of  relief,  and  snatched  the  hand- 
kerchief away  from  Lucilla.  "Ach!  what  a  nasty  smell!" 
lie  said,  holding  the  handkerchief  to  his  nose  with  a  grimace 
of  disgust.  "Tobaccos  is  much  better  than  this."  He  sol- 
aced his  nostrils,  offended  by  the  lavender-water,  with  a 
huge  pinch  of  snuff'.  "Now  I  am  going  to  talk,"  he  went 
on.  "See  !  I  keep  my  distance.  You  don't  want  your  hand- 
kerchiefs— you  smell  me  no  more." 

"Am  I  blind  for  life?"  said  Lucilla.  "Pray,  pray  tell  me, 
Sir!  Am  I  blind  for  life?" 

"  Will  you  kees  me  if  I  tell  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  do  consider  how  anxious  I  am !  Pray,  pray,  pvay  tell 
me !" 

She  tried  to  go  down  on  her  knees  before  him.  He  held 
her  back  firmly  and  kindly  in  her  chair. 

"Now!  now!  now!  you  be  nice-goot,  and  tell  me  this 
first.  When  you  are  out  in  the  garden,  taking  your  little 
lazy  lady's  walks  on  a  shiny-sunny  day,  is  it  all  the  same  to 
your  eyes  as  if  you  were  lying  in  your  bed  in  the  middles  of 
the  night  ?" 

"  No." 

"Hah  !  You  know  it  is  nice-light  at  one  time?  you  know 
it  is  horrid-dark  at  the  odder  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Then  why  you  ask  me  if  you  are  blind  for  life?  If  you 
can  see  as  much  as  that,  you  are  not  properly  blind  at  all !" 

She  clasped  her  hands,  with  a  low  cry  of  delight.  "  Oh, 
where  is  Oscar?"  she  said,  softly.  "Where  is  Oscar?"  I 
looked  round  for  him.  He  was  gone.  While  his  brother 
and  I  had  been  hanging  spell-bound  over  the  surgeon's  ques- 
tions and  the  patient's  answers,  he  must  have  stolen  silently 
out  of  the  room. 

Ilerr  Grosse  rose  and  vacated  the  chair  in  favor  of  Mr 
Sebright.  In  the  ecstasy  of  the  new  hope  now  confirmed  in 

K 


218  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

her,  Lucilla  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  the 
English  oculist  when  lie  took  his  colleague's  place.  His 
grave  face  looked  more  serious  than  ever  as  he,  too,  produced 
a  magnifying-glass  from  his  pocket,  and,  gently  parting  the 
patient's  eyelids,  entered  on  the  examination  of  her  blind- 
ness, in  his  turn. 

The  investigation  by  Mr.  Sebright  lasted  a  much  longer 
time  than  the  investigation  by  Herr  Grosse.  He  pursued  it 
in  perfect  silence.  When  he  had  done,  he  rose  without  a 
word,  and  left  Lucilla  as  he  had  found  her,  rapt  in  the  trance 
of  her  own  happiness — thinking,  thinking,  thinking  of  the 
time  when  she  should  open  her  eyes  in  the  new  morning, 
and  see! 

"Well?"  said  Nugent,  impatiently  addressing  Mr.  Se- 
bright. "  What  do  you  say  ?" 

"I  say  nothing  yet."  With  that  implied  reproof  to  Nu- 
gent, he  turned  to  me.  "  I  understand  that  Miss  Finch  was 
blind — or  as  nearly  blind  as  could  be  discovered — at  a  year 
old  ?" 

"I  have  always  heard  so,"  I  replied. 

"Is  there  any  person  in  the  house — parent,  or  relative,  or 
servant — who  can  speak  to  the  symptoms  noticed  when  she 
was  an  infant?" 

I  rang  the  bell  for  Zillah.  "  Her  mother  is  dead,"  I  said, 
"  and  there  are  reasons  which  prevent  her  father  from  being 
present  to-day.  Her  old  nurse  will  be  able  to  give  you  all 
the  information  you  want." 

Zillah  appeared.     Mr.  Sebright  put  his  questions. 

"  Were  you  in  the  house  when  Miss  Finch  was  born  ?" 

"  Yes,  Sir." 

"  Was  there  any  thing  wrong  with  her  eyes  at  her  birth, 
or  soon  afterward  ?" 

"Nothing,  Sir." 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"  I  knew  by  seeing  her  take  notice,  Sir.  She  used  to  stare 
at  the  candles,  and  clutch  at  things  that  were  held  before 
her, 'as  other  babies  do." 

"How  did  you  discover  it  when  she  began  to  get 
blind?" 

"In  the  same  way,  Sir.  There  came  a  time,  poor  little 
thing !  when  her  eyes  looke-1  glazed  like,  and  try  her  as  we 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  219 

might,  morning  or  evening,  it  was  all  the  same — she  noticed 
nothing." 

44  Did  the  blindness  come  on  gradually  ?" 

"  Yes,  Sir — bit  by  bit,  as  you  may  say.  Slowly  worse  and 
worse  one  week  after  another.  She  was  a  little  better  than 
:i  year  old  before  we  clearly  made  it  out  that  her  sight  was 
gone." 

"  Was  her  father's  sight,  or  her  mother's  sight,  ever  affect- 
ed in  any  way?" 

"  Never,  Sir,  that  I  heard  of." 

Mr.  Sebright  turned  to  Herr  Grosse,  sitting  at  the  lunch- 
eon-table resignedly  contemplating  the  Mayonnaise.  "Do 
you  wish  to  ask  the  nurse  any  questions?"  he  said. 

Herr  Grosse  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  pointed  backward 
with  his  thumb  at  the  place  in  which  Lucilla  was  sitting. 

"Her  case  is  as  plain  to  me  as  twos  and  twos  make  fours. 
Ach  Gott !  what  do  I  want  with  the  nurse?"  He  turned 
again  longingly  toward  the  Mayonnaise.  "My  fine  appe- 
tites is  going  !  When  shall  we  lonch  ?" 

o          o 

Mr.  Sebright  dismissed  Zillah  with  a  frigid  inclination  of 
the  head.  His  discouraging  manner  made  me  begin  to  feel 
a  little  uneasy.  I  ventured  to  ask  if  he  had  arrived  at  a  con- 
clusion yet.  "Permit  me  to  consult  with  my  colleague  be- 
fore I  answer  you,"  said  the  impenetrable  man.  I  roused 
Lucilla.  She  again  inquired  for  Oscar.  I  said  I  supposed 
we  should  find  him  in  the  garden — and  so  took  her  out.  Nu- 
gent followed  us.  I  heard  Herr  Grosse  whisper  to  him,  pit- 
eously,  as  we  passed  the  luncheon-table,  "For  the  lofe  of 
Heaven,  come  back  soon,  and  let  us  lonch  !"  We  left  the  ill- 
assorted  pair  to  their  consultation  in  the  sitting-room. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY- FIRST. 

41  WHO    SHALL   DECIDE    WHEN    DOCTORS    DISAGREE?" 

WE  had  certainly  not  been  more  than  ten  minutes  in  the 
garden  when  we  were  startled  by  an  extraordinary  outbreak 
of  shouting  in  broken  English  proceeding  from  the  window 
of  the  sitting-room.  "Ili-hi-hoi!  hoi-hi !  hoi-hi !"  We  look- 
ed up,  and  discovered  Herr  Grosse  frantically  waving  a  huge 
red  silk  handkerchief  at  the  window.  "Lonch!  lonch!" 


220  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

cried  the  German  surgeon.  "The  consultations  is  done. 
Come-begin-begin  !" 

Obedient  to  this  peremptory  summons,  Lucilla,  Nugent, 
and  I  returned  to  the'sitting-room.  We  had,  as  I  had  fore- 
seen, found  Oscar  wandering  alone  in  the  garden.  He  had 
entreated  me,  by  a  sign,  not  to  reveal  our  discovery  of  him 
to  Lucilla,  and  had  hurried  away  to  hide  himself  in  one  of 
the  side  walks.  His  agitation  was  pitiable  to  see.  He  was 
totally  unfit  to  be  trusted  in  Lucilla's  presence  at  that  anx- 
ious moment. 

When  we  had  left  the  oculists  together  I  had  sent  Zillah 
with  a  little  written  message  to  Reverend  Finch,  entreating 
him  (if  it  was  only  for  form's  sake)  to  reconsider  his  resolu- 
tion, and  be  present  on  the  all-important  occasion  to  his 
daughter  of  the  delivery  of  the  medical  opinions  on  her  case. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  (on  our  return)  my  answer  was 
handed  to  me  on  a  slip  of  sermon  paper.  "Mr.  Finch  de- 
clined to  submit  a  question  of  principle  to  any  considera- 
tions dictated  by  mere  expediency.  He  desired  seriously  to 
remind  Madame  Pratolungo  of  what  he  had  already  told  her. 
In  other  words,  he  would  repeat,  and  he  would  beg  her  to  re- 
member this  time,  that  his  Foot  was  down." 

On  re-entering  the  room  we  found  the  eminent  oculists 
seated  as  far  apart  as  possible  one  from  the  other.  Both 
gentlemen  were  engaged  in  reading.  Mr.  Sebright  was  read- 
ing a  book.  Herr  Grosse  was  reading  the  Mayonnaise. 

I  placed  Lucilla  close  by  me,  and  took  her  hand.  It  was 
as  cold  as  ice.  My  poor  dear  trembled  pitiably.  For  her, 
what  moments  of  unutterable  suffering  were  those  moments 
of  suspense  before  the  surgeons  delivered  their  sentence!  I 
pressed  her  little  cold  hand  in  mine,  and  whispered,  "Cour- 
age !"  Truly,  I  can  say  it  (though  I  am  not  usually  one  of 
the  sentimental  sort),  my  heart  bled  for  her. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Nugent,  "  what  is  the  result  ? 
Are  you  both  agreed  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Sebright,  putting  aside  his  book. 

"No,"  said  Herr  Grosse,  ogling  the  Mayonnaise. 

Lucilla  turned  her  face  toward  me — her  color  shifting  and 
changing,  her  bosom  rising  and  falling  more  and  more  rapid- 
ly. I  whispered  to  her  to  compose  herself.  "One  of  them, 
at  any  rate,"  I  said,  "  thinks  you  will  recover  your  sight." 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  221 

She  understood  me,  and  became  quieter  directly.  Nugent 
went  on  with  his  questions,  addressed  to  the  two  oculists. 

"What  do  you  differ  about?"  he  asked.  "Will  you  let 
us  hear  your  opinions?" 

The  wearisome  contest  of  courtesy  was  renewed  between 
our  medical  advisers.  Mr.  Sebright  bowed  to  He  IT  Grosse : 
"  You  first."  Herr  Grosse  bowed  to  Mr.'  Sebright :  "  No— 
you !"  My  impatience  broke  through  this  cruel  and  ridicu- 
lous professional  restraint.  "  Speak  both  together,  gentle- 
men, if  you  like  !"  I  said,  sharply.  "Do  any  thing,  for  God's 
sake,  but  keep  us  in  suspense  !  Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  possible  to 
restore  her  sight  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Herr  Grosse. 

Lucilla  sprang  to  her  feet,  with  a  cry  of  joy. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Sebright. 

Lucilla  dropped  back  again  into  her  chair,  and  silently 
laid  her  head  on  my  shoulder. 

"  Are  you  agreed  about  the  cause  of  her  blindness?"  asked 
Nugent. 

"  Cataracts  is  the  cause,"  answered  Herr  Grosse. 

"So  far,  I  agree,"  said  Mr.  Sebright.  "Cataract  is  the 
cause." 

"  Cataracts  is  curable,"  pursued  the  German. 

"I  agree  again,"  continued  the  Englishman — "with  a  res- 
ervation. Cataract  is  sometimes  curable." 

"  Tliis  cataracts  is  curable!"  cried  Herr  Grosse. 

"  With  ail  possible  deference,"  said  Mr.  Sebright,  "  I  dis- 
pute that  conclusion.  The  cataract  in  Miss  Finch's  case  is 
not  curable." 

"Can  you  give  us  your  reasons,  Sir,  for  saying  that?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"My  reasons  are  based  on  surgical  considerations  which 
it  requires  a  professional  training  to  understand,"  Mr.  Se- 
bright replied.  "I  can  only  tell  you  that  I  am  convinced — '• 
after  the  most  minute  and  careful  examination — that  Miss 
Finch's  sight  is  irrevocably  gone.  Any  attempt  to  restore 
it  by  an  operation  would  be,  in  my  opinion,  an  unwarrantable 
proceeding.  The  young  lady  would  not  only  have  the  oper- 
ation to  undergo,  she  would  be  kept  secluded  afterward,  for 
at  least  six  weeks  or  two  months,  in  a  darkened  room.  Dur- 
ing that  time,  it  is  needless  for  me  to  remind  you  that  she 


222  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

would  inevitably  form  the  most  confident  hope  of  her  resto- 
ration to  sight.  Remembering  this,  and  believing  as  I  do 
that  the  sacrifice  demanded  of  her  will  end  in  failure,!  think 
it  most  undesirable  to  expose  our  patient  to  the  moral  con- 
sequences of  a  disappointment  which  must  seriously  try  her. 
She  lias  been  resigned  from  childhood  to  her  blindness.  As 
an  honest  man,  who  feels  bound  to  speak  out,  and  to  speak 
strongly,  I  advise  you  not  further  to  disturb  that  resigna- 
tion. I  declare  it  to  be,  in  my  opinion,  certainly  useless,  and 
possibly  dangerous,  to  allow  her  to  be  operated  on  for  the 
restoration  of  her  sight." 

In  those  uncompromising  words  the  Englishman  delivered 
his  opinion. 

Lucilla's  hand  closed  fast  on  mine.  "  Cruel !  cruel !"  she 
whispered  to  herself,  angrily.  I  gave  her  a  little  squeeze, 
recommending  patience,  and  looked  in  silent  expectation 
(just  as  Nugent  was  looking  too)  at  Herr  Grosse.  The  Ger- 
man rose  deliberately  to  his  feet,  and  waddled  to  the  place 
in  which  Lucilla  and  I  were  sitting  together. 

"  Has  goot  Mr.  Sebrights  done  ?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Sebright  only  replied  by  his  everlasting,  never-chang- 
ing bow. 

"  Goot !  I  have  now  my  own  word  to  put  in,"  said  Herr 
Grosse.  "  It  shall  be  one  little  word — no  more.  With  my 
best  compliments  to  Mr.  Sebrights,  I  set  up  against  Avhat  he 
only  thinks  what  I — Grosse — with  these  hands  of  mine  have 
done.  The  cataracts  of  miss  there  is  a  cataracts  that  I  have 
cut  into  before,  a  cataracts  that  I  have  cured  before.  Now 
look  !"  He  suddenly  wheeled  round  to  Lucilla,  tucked  up 
his  cuffs,  laid  a  forefinger  of  each  hand  on  either  side  of  her 
forehead,  and  softly  turned  down  her  eyelids  with  his  two 
big  thumbs.  "I  pledge  you  my  word  as  surgeon-optic,"  he 
resumed,  "  my  knife  shall  let  the  light  in  here.  This  lofable- 
nice  girls  shall  be  more  lofable-nicer  than  ever.  My  pretty 
Feench  must  be  first  in  her  best  goot  health.  She  must  next 
gifme  my  own  ways  with  her — and  then  one,  two,  three — 
ping  !  my  pretty  Feench  shall  see!"  He  lifted  Lucilla's  eye- 
lids again  as  he  said  the  last  word — glared  fiercely  at  her 
through  his  spectacles  —  gave  her  the  loudest  kiss,  on  the 
forehead,  that  I  ever  heard  given  in  my  life — laughed  till  the 
room  rang  again — and  returned  to  his  post  as  sentinel  on 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  223 

guard  over  the  Mayonnaise.  "Now,"  cried  Ilerr  Grosse, 
cheerfully,  "the  talkiugs  is  all  done.  Gott  be  thanked,  the 
eatings  may  begin !" 

Lucilla  left  her  chair  for  the  second  time. 

"Herr  Grosse,"  she  said,  "where  are  yon?" 

"Here,  my  dears." 

She  crossed  the  room  to  the  table  at  which  he  was  sitting, 
already  occupied  in  carving  his  favorite  dish. 

"Did  you  say  you  must  use  a  knife  to  make  me  see?"  she 
asked,  quite  calmly. 

"  Yes,  yes.  Don't  you  be  frightened  of  that.  Not  much 
pains  to  bear — not  much  pains." 

She  tapped  him  smartly  on  the  shoulder  with  her  hand. 

"  Get  up,  He rr  Grosse,"  she  said.  "  If  you  have  your 
knife  about  you,  here  am  I — do  it  at  once!" 

Nugent    started.      Mr.  Sebright    started.      Her    daring 

o  C* 

amazed  them  both.  As  for  me,  I  am  the  greatest  coward 
living,  in  the  matter  of  surgical  operations  performed  on  my- 
self or  on  others.  Lncilla  terrified  me.  I  ran  headlong 
across  the  room  to  her.  I  was  even  fool  enough  to  scream. 

Before  I  could  reach  her  Herr  Grosse  had  risen,  obedient 
to  command,  with  a  choice  morsel  of  chicken  on  the  end  of 
his  fork.  "You  charming  little  fools,"  he  said,  "I  don't  cut 
into  cataracts  in  such  a  hurry  as  that.  I  perform  but  one 
operations  on  you  to-day.  It  is  this  !"  He  unceremoniously 
popped  the  morsel  of  chicken  into  Lucilla's  mouth.  "Aha! 
Bite  him  well.  lie  is  nice-goot !  Now,  then  !  Sit  down  all 
of  you.  Lonch  !  lonch  !" 

He  was  irresistible.     We  all  sat  down  at  table. 

The  rest  of  us  ate.  Herr  Grosse  gobbled.  From  Mayon- 
naise to  marmalade  tart.  From  marmalade  tart  back  again 
to  Mayonnaise.  From  Mayonnaise  forward  again  to  ham 
sandwiches  and  blanc-mango ;  and  then  back  once  more  (on 
the  word  of  an  honest  woman)  to  Mayonnaise!  His  drink- 
ing was  on  the  same  scale  as  his  eating.  Beer,  wine,  brandy 
— nothing  came  amiss  to  him :  he  mixed  them  all.  As  for 
the  lighter  elements  in  the  feast — the  almonds  and  raisins, 
the  preserved  ginger  and  the  crystallized  fruits — he  ate  them 
as  accompaniments  to  every  thing.  A  dish  of  olives  espe- 
cially won  his  favor.  He  plunged  bopi  hands  into  it,  and  de- 
posited his  fistfuls  of  olives  in  the  pockets  of  his  trowsers. 


224  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

"In  this  ways,"  he  explained,  "I  shall  trouble  nobody  to 
pass  the  dish — I  shall  have  by  me  continually  all  the  olives 
that  I  want."  When  he  could  eat  and  drink  no  more,  he  roll- 
ed up  his  napkin  into  a  ball,  and  became  devoutly  thankful. 
"  How  goot  of  Gott,"  he  remarked,  "  when  he  invented  the 
worlds  to  invent  eatings  and  drinkings  too !  Ah  !"  sighed 
Herr  Grosse,  gently  laying  his  outspread  fingers  on  the  pit 
of  his  stomach,  "  what  immense  happiness  there  is  in  This  !"' 

Mr.  Sebright  looked  at  his  watch. 

"If  there  is  any  thing  more  to  be  said  on  the  question  of 
the  operation,"  he  announced,  "it  must  be  said  at  once.  We 
have  barely  five  minutes  more  to  spare.  You  have  heard  my 
opinion.  I  hold  to  it." 

Herr  Grosse  took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  "  I  also,"  he  said,  "  hold 
to  mine." 

Lucilla  turned  toward  the  place  from  which  Mr.  Sebright 
had  spoken. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,  Sir,  for  your  opinion,"  she  said,  very 
quietly  and  firmly.  "I  am  determined  to  try  the  operation. 
If  it  does  fail,  it  will  only  leave  me  what  I  am  now.  If  it 
succeeds,  it  gives  me  a  new  life.  I  will  bear  any  thing  and 
risk  any  thing  on  the  chance  that  I  may  see." 

So  she  announced  her  decision.  In  those  memorable  words 
she  cleared  the  way  for  the  coming  Event  in  her  life  and  in 
our  lives  which  it  is  the  purpose  of  these  pages  to  record. 

Mr.  Sebright  answered  her,  in  Mr.  Sebright's  discreet  way. 

"  I  can  not  affect  to  be  surprised  at  your  decision,"  he  said. 
"However  sincerely  I  may  regret  it,  I  admit  that  it  is  the 
natural  decision  in  your  case." 

Lucilla  addressed  herself  next  to  Herr  Grosse. 

"Choose  your  own  day,"  she  said.  "The  sooner  the  bet- 
ter. To-morrow,  if  you  can.'.' 

"  Answer  me  one  little  thing,  miss,"  rejoined  the  German, 
with  a  sudden  gravity  of  tone  and  manner,  which  was  quite 
new  in  our  experience  of  him.  "  Do  you  mean  what  you  say  ?" 

She  answered  him  gravely  on  her  side.  "I  mean  what  I 
say." 

"Goot.  There  is  times,  my  lofe,  to  be  funny.  There  is  also 
times  to  be  grave.  It  is  grave  times  now.  I  have  my  last 
word  to  say  to  you  before  I  go." 

With  his  wild  black  eyes  staring  through  his  owlish  spec- 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  225 

tacles  at  Lucilla's  face,  speaking  earnestly  in  his  strange 
broken  English,  he  now  impressed  on  his  patient  the  neces- 
sity of  gravely  considering  and  preparing  for  the  operation 
which  he  had  undertaken  to  perform.  I  was  greatly  relieved 
by  the  tone  he  took  with  her.  lie  spoke  with  authority :  she 
would  be  obliged  to  listen  to  him. 

In  the  first  place,  he  warned  Lucilla,  if  the  operation  fail- 
ed, that  there  would  be  no  possibility  of  returning  to  it  and 
trying  it  again.  Once  done,  be  the  results  what  they  might, 
it  was  done  for  good. 

In  the  second  place,  before  he  would  consent  to  operate, 
he  must  insist  on  certain  conditions,  essential  to  success,  be- 
ing rigidly  complied  with  on  the  part  of  the  patient  and 
her  friends.  Mr.  Sebright  had  by  no  means  exaggerated  the 
length  of  the  time  of  trial  which  would  follow  the  operation, 
in  the  darkened  room.  Under  no  circumstances  could  she 
hope  to  have  her  eyes  uncovered,  even  for  a  lew  moments,  to 
the  light,  after  a  shorter  interval  than  six  weeks.  During  the 

O          t  O 

whole  of  that  time,  and  probably  during  another  six  weeks 
to  follow,  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  she  should  be  kept 
in  such  a  state  of  health  as  would  assist  her,  constitution- 
ally, in  her  gradual  progress  toward  complete  restoration  of 
sight.  If  body  and  mind  both  were  not  preserved  in  their 
best  and  steadiest  condition,  all  that  his  skill  could  do  might 
be  done  in  vain.  Nothing  to  excite  or  to  agitate  her  must 
be  allowed  to  find  its  way  into  the  quiet  daily  routine  of  her 
life  until  her  medical  attendant  was  satisfied  that  her  sight 
was  safe.  The  success  of  Ilerr  Grosse's  professional  career 
had  been  due,  in  no  small  degree,  to  his  rigid  enforcement  of 
these  rules,  founded  on  his  own  experience  of  the  influence 
which  a  patient's  general  health,  moral  as  well  as  physical, 
exercised  on  that  patient's  chance  of  profiting  under  an  oper- 
ation— more  especially  an  operation  on  an  organ  so  delicate 
as  the  organ  of  sight. 

Having  spoken  to  this  effect,  lie  appealed  to  Lucilla's  own 
good  sense  to  recognize  the  necessity  of  taking  time  to  con- 
sider her  decision,  and  to  consult  on  it  with  her  relatives  and 
friends.  In  plain  words,  for  at  least  three  months  the  family 
arrangements  must  be  so  shaped  as  to  enable  the  surgeon  in 
attendance  on  her  to  hold  the  absolute  power  of  regulating 
her  life,  and  of  deciding  on  nny  changes  introduced  into  it. 

K  •> 


226  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

When  she  and  the  members  of  her  family  circle  were  sure  of 
being  able  to  comply  with  these  conditions,  Lucilla  had  only 
to  write  to  him  at  his  hotel  in  London.  On  the  next  day  he 
would  undertake  to  be  at  Dimchurch.  And  then  and  there 
(if  he  was  satisfied  with  the  state  of  her  health  at  the  time) 
he  would  perform  the  operation. 

After  pledging  himself  in  those  terms,  Herr  Grosse  puffed 
out  his  remaining  breath  in  one  deep  guttural  "Hah!"  and 
got  briskly  on  his  short  legs.  At  the  same  moment  Zillah 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  announced  that  the  chaise  was 
waiting  for  the  two  gentlemen  at  the  rectory  gate. 

Mr.  Sebright  rose — in  some  doubt,  apparently,  whether  his 
colic-ague  had  done  talking.  "Don't  let  me  hurry  you,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  business  in  Loifrdon ;  and  I  must  positively 
catch  the  next  train." 

"  Soh  !"  I  have  my  business  in  London  too,"  answered  his 
brother  oculist  —  "the  business  of  pleasure."  (Mr.  Sebright 
looked  scandalized  at  the  frankness  of  this  confession,  com- 
ing from  a  professional  man.)  "I  am  so  passion-fond  of  mu- 
sics," Herr  Grosse  went  on,  "I  want  to  be  in  goot  times  for 
the  opera.  Ach  Gott !  musics  is  expensive  in  England  !  I 
climb  to  the  gallery,  and  pay  my  five  silver  shillingses  even 
there.  For  five  copper  pences,  in  my  own  country,  I  can  get 
the  same  thing — only  better  done.  From  the  deep  bottoms 
of  my  heart,"  proceeded  this  curious  man,  taking  a  cordial 
leave  of  me,  "I  thank  you,  dear  madam,  for  the  Mayonnaise. 
When  I  come  again,  I  pray  you  more  of  that  lofely  dish." 
He  turned  to  Lucilla  and  popped  his  thumbs  on  her  eyelids 
for  the  last  time  at  parting.  "My  swcet-Feench,  remember 
what  your  surgeon-optic  has  said  to  you.  I  shall  let  the 
light  in  here — but  in  my  own  way,  at  my  own  time.  Pretty 
lofe!  Ah,  how  infinitely  much  prettier  she  will  be  when  she 
can  see!"  He  took  Lucilla's  hand,  and  put  it  sentimentally 
inside  the  collar  of  his  waistcoat,  over  the  region  of  the  heart, 
laying  his  other  hand  upon  it  as  if  he  was  keeping  it  warm. 
In  this  tender  attitude  he  blew  a  prodigious  sigh,  recov- 
ered himself  with  a  shake  of  his  shock- head,  winked  at  me 
through  his  spectacles,  and  waddled  out  after  Mr.  Sebright, 
who  was  already  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  Who  would 
have  guessed  that  this  man  held  the  key  which  was  to  open 
for  mv  blind  Lucilla  the  irates  of  a  new  life! 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  227 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY- SECOND. 

ALAS    FOR   THE    MARRIAGE  ! 

WE  were  left  together:  Nugent  having  accompanied  the 
two  oculists  to  the  garden  gate. 

Now  that  we  were  alone,  Oscar's  absence  could  hardly  fail 
to  attract  Lucilla's  attention.  Just  as  she  was  referring  to 
him,  in  terms  which  made  it  no  easy  task  for  me  to  quiet  her 
successfully,  we  were  interrupted  by  the  screams  of  the  baby, 
ascending  from  the  garden  below.  I  ran  to  the  window  and 
looked  out. 

Mrs.  Finch  had  actually  effected  her  desperate  purpose  of 
waylaying  the  two  surgeons  in  the  interests  of  "  baby's  eyes." 
There  she  was,  in  a  skirt  and  a  shawl— with  her  novel  drop- 
ped in  one  part  of  the  lawn,  and  her  handkerchief  in  the 
other  —  pursuing  the  oculists  on  their  way  to  the  chaise. 
Reckless  of  appearances,  HerrGrosse  had  taken  to  his  heels. 
He  was  retreating  from  the  screeching  infant  (with  his  fin- 
gers stuffed  into  his  ears)  as  fast  as  his  short  legs  would  let 
him.  Nugent  was  ahead  of  him,  hurrying  on  to  open  the  gar- 
den gate.  Respectable  Mr.  Sebright  (professionally  incapa- 
ble of  running)  brought  up  the  rear.  At  short  intervals  Mrs. 
Finch,  close  on  his  heels,  held  up  the  baby  for  inspection.  At 
short  intervals  Mr.  Sebright  held  up  his  hands  in  polite  pro- 
test. Nugent,  roaring  with  laughter,  threw  open  the  garden 
gate.  Ilerr  Grosse  rushed  through  the  opening  and  disap- 
peared. Mr.  Sebright  followed  Herr  Grosse ;  and  Mrs.  Finch 
attempted  to  follow  Mr.  Sebright — when  a  new  personage 
appeared  on  the  scene.  Startled  in  the  sanctuary  of  his  study 
by  the  noise,  the  rector  himself  strutted  into  the  garden,  and 
brought  his  wife  to  a  sudden  stand-still,  by  inquiring  in  his 
deepest  bass  notes,  "  What  does  this  unseemly  disturbance 
mean  ?" 

The  chaise  drove  off;  and  Nugent  closed  the  garden  gate. 

Some  words,  inaudible  to  my  ears,  passed  between  Nugent 
and  the  rector  —  referring,  as  I  could  only  suppose,  to  the 
visit  of  the  two  departing  surgeons.  After  a  while  Mr.  Finch 
turned  away  (to  all  appearance  offended  by  something  which 


228  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

had  been  said  to  him),  and  addressed  himself  to  Oscar,  who 
now  re-appeared  on  the  lawn,  having  evidently  only  waited 
to  show  himself  until  the  chaise  drove  away.  The  rector 
fraternally  took  his  arm  ;  and,  beckoning  to  his  wife  with  the 
other  hand,  took  Mrs.  Finch's  arm  next.  Majestically  march- 
ing back  to  the  house  between  the  two,  Reverend  Finch  as- 
serted himself  and  his  authority  alternately,  now  to  Oscar  and 
now  to  his  wife.  His  big  booming  voice  reached  my  ears 
distinctly,  accompanied  in  sharp  discord  by  the  last  wailings 
of  the  exhausted  child. 

In  these  terrible  words  the  Pope  of  Dimchurch  began: 
"Oscar!  you  are  to  understand  distinctly,  if  you  please, 
that  I  maintain  my  protest  against  this  impious  attempt  to 
meddle  with  my  afflicted  daughter's  sight. — Mrs.  Finch  !  you 
are  to  understand  that  I  excuse  your  unseemly  pursuit  of 
two  strange  surgeons  in  consideration  of  the  state  that  I  find 
you  in  at  this  moment.  After  your  last  confinement  but 
eight  you  became,  I  remember,  hysterically  irresponsible. 
Hold  your  tongue.  You  are  hysterically  irresponsible  now. 
— Oscar  !  I  decline,  in  justice  to  myself,  to  be  present  at  any 
discussion  which  may  follow  the  visit  of  these  two  profes- 
sional persons.  But  I  am  not  averse  to  advising  you  for 
your  own  good.  My  Foot  is  down.  Put  your  foot  down  too. 
— Mrs.  Finch  !  how  long  is  it  since  you  ate  last !  Two  hours? 
Are  you  sure  it  is  two  hours?  Very  good.  You  require  a 
sedative  application.  I  order  you,  medically,  to  get  into  a 
warm  bath,  and  stay  there  till  I  come  to  you. — Oscar !  you 
are  deficient,  my  good  fellow,  in  moral  weight.  Endeavor  to 
oppose  yourself  resolutely  to  any  scheme,  on  the  part  of  my 
unhappy  daughter  or  of  those  who  advise  her,  which  involves 
more  expenditure  of  money  in. fees,  and  new  appearances  of 
professional  persons. — Mrs.  Finch  !  the  temperature  is  to  be 
ninety-eight,  and  the  position  partially  recumbent. — Oscar! 
I  authorize  you  (if  you  can't  stop  it  in  any  other  way)  to 
throw  My  moral  weight  into  the  scale.  You  arc  free  to  say 
'I  oppose  This,  with  Mr.  Finch's  approval :  I  am,  so  to  speak, 
backed  by  Mr.  Finch.'  —  Mrs.  Finch!  I  wish  you  to  under- 
stand the  object  of  the  bath.  Hold  your  tongue.  The  ob- 
ject is  to  produce  a  gentle  action  on  your  skin.  One  of  the 
women  is  to  keep  her  eye  on  your  forehead.  The  instant 
she  perceives  an  appearance  of  moisture  she  is  to  run  for  me. 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  229 

— Oscar!  you  will  let  me  know  at  what  decision  they  arrive 
np  stairs  in  my  daughter's  room.  Not  after  they  have  mere- 
ly heard  what  you  have  to  say,  but  after  My  Moral  Weight 
has  been  thrown  into  the  soak-. — Mrs.  Finch  !  on  leaving  the 
bath,  I  shall  have  you  only  lightly  clothed.  I  forbid,  with 
a  view  to  your  head,  all  compression,  whether  of  stays  or 
strings,  round  the  waist.  I  forbid  garters  —  with  the  same 
object.  You  will  abstain  from  tea  and  talking.  You  will 
lie,  loose,  on  your  back.  You  will — 

What  else  this  unhappy  woman  was  to  do  I  failed  to  hear. 
Mr.  Finch  disappeared  with  her  round  the  corner  of  the 
house.  Oscar  waited  at  the  door  of  our  side  of  the  rectory 
until  Nugent  joined  him  on  their  way  back  to  the  sitting- 
room  in  which  we  were  expecting  their  return. 

After  an  interval  of  a  few  minutes  the  brothers  appeared. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  the  time  during  which  the  sur- 
geons had  been  in  the  house  I  had  noticed  that  Nugent  per- 
sisted in  keeping  himself  scrupulously  in  the  background. 
Having  assumed  the  responsibility  of  putting  the  serious 
question  of  Lucilla's  sight  scientifically  to  the  test,  he  ap- 
peared to  be  resolved  to  pause  there,  and  to  interfere  no  fur- 
ther in  the  affair  after  it  had  passed  its  first  stage.  And  now 
again,  when  we  were  met  in  our  little  committee  to  discuss, 
and  possibly  to  combat,  Lucilla's  resolution  to  proceed  to  ex- 
tremities, he  once  more  refrained  from  interfering  actively 
with  the  matter  in  hand. 

"I  have  brought  Oscar  back  with  me,"  he  said  to  Lucilla, 
"  and  I  have  told  him  how  widely  the  two  oculists  differ  in 
opinion  on  your  case.  He  knows  also  that  you  have  decided 
on  being  guided  by  the  more  favorable  view  taken  by  Her:1 
Grosse  — and  he  knows  no  more." 

There  he  stopped  abruptly,  and  seated  himself  apart  from 
us,  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room. 

Lucilla  instantly  appealed  to  Oscar  to  explain  his  conduct. 

"  Why  have  you  kept  out  of  the  way  ?"  she  asked.  "  Why 
have  you  not  been  with  me  at  the  most  important  moment  of 
my  lite  ?'' 

"  Because  I  felt  your  anxious  position  too  keenly,"  Oscar 
answered.  "Don't  think  me  inconsiderate  toward  you,  Lu- 
cilla. If  I  had  not  kept  away,  I  might  not  have  been  able  to 
control  mvself." 


230  POOR   MISS  FINCH. 

I  thought  that  reply  far  too  dexterous  to  have  come  from 
Oscar  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  Besides,  he  looked  at  his 
brother  when  he  said  the  last  words.  It  seemed  more  than 
likely — short  as  the  interval  had  been  before  they  appeared 
in  the  sitting-room — that  Nugent  had  been  advising  Oscar, 
and  had  been  telling  him  what  to  say. 

Lucilla  received  his  excuses  with  the  readiest  grace  and 
kindness. 

"Mr.  Sebright  tells  me,  Oscar,  that  my  sight  is  hopelessly 
gone,"  she  said.  "  Herr  Grosse  answers  for  it  that  an  opera- 
tion will  make  me  see.  Need  I  tell  you  which  of  the  two  I 
believe  in  ?  If  I  could  have  had  my  own  way,  Herr  Grosse 
should  have  operated  on  my  eyes  before  he  went  back  to 
London." 

"  Did  he  refuse  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Why  ?" 

Lucilla  told  him  of  the  reasons  which  the  German  oculist 
had  stated  as  unanswerable  reasons  for  delay.  Oscar  listened 
attentively,  and  looked  at  his  brother  again  before  he  re- 
plied. 

"As  I  understand  it,"  he  said,  "if  you  decide  on  risking 
the  operation  at  once,  you  decide  on  undergoing  six  weeks' 
imprisonment  in  a  darkened  room,  and  on  placing  yourself 
entirely  at  the  surgeon's  disposal  for  six  weeks  more  after 
that.  Have  you  considered,  Lucilla,  that  this  means  putting 
off  our  marriage  again  for  at  least  three  months?" 

"If  you  were  in  my  place,  Oscar,  you  would  let  nothing, 
not  even  your  marriage,  stand  in  the  way  of  your  restoration 
to  sight.  Don't  ask  me  to  consider,  love.  I  can  consider 
nothing  but  the  prospect  of  seeing  You  !" 

That  fearlessly  frank  confession  silenced  him.  He  hap- 
pened to  be  sitting  opposite  to  the  glass,  so  that  he  could  see 
his  face.  The  poor  wretch  abruptly  moved  his  chair,  so  as 
to  turn  his  back  on  it. 

I  looked  at  Nugent,  and  surprised  him  trying  to  catch  his 
brother's  eye.  Prompted  by  him,  as  I  could  now  no  longer 
doubt,  Oscar  had  laid  his  finger  on  a  certain  domestic  diffi- 
culty which  I  had  had  in  my  mind  from  the  moment  when 
the  question  of  the  operation  had  been  first  agitated  among 
us. 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  231 

(The  marriage  of  Oscar  and  Lucilla — it  is  here  necessary 
to  explain — had  encountered  another  obstacle,  and  undergone 
a  new  delay,  in  consequence  of  the  dangerous  illness  of  Lu- 
cilla's  aunt.  Miss  Batchford,  invited  to  the  ceremony  as  a 
matter  of  course,  had  most  considerately  sent  a  message  beg- 
ging that  the  marriage  might  not  be  deferred  on  her  account. 
Lucilla,  however,  had  refused  to  allow  her  wedding  to  be  cel- 
ebrated while  the  woman  who  had  been  a  second  mother  to 
her  lay  at  the  point  of  death.  The  rector  (with  an  eye  to 
rich  Miss  Batchford's  money)  had  supported  his  daughter's 
decision,  and  Oscar  had  been  compelled  to  submit.  These 
domestic  events  had  taken  place  about  three  weeks  since; 
and  we  were  now  in  receipt  of  news  which  not  only  assured 
us  of  the  old  lady's  recovery,  but  informed  us  also  that  she 
would  be  well  enough  to  make  one  of  the  wedding-party  in  a 
fortnight's  time.  The  bride's  dress  was  in  the  house;  the 
bride's  lather  was  ready  to  officiate — and  here,  like  a  fatality, 
was  the  question  of  the  operation  unexpectedly  starting  up, 
and  threatening  another  delay  yet  for  a  period  which  could 
not  possibly  be  shorter  than  a  period  of  three  months  !  Add 
to  this,  if  you  please,  a  new  element  of  embarrassment  as  fol- 
lows. Supposing  Lucilla  to  persist  in  her  resolution,  and 
Oscar  to  persist  in  concealing  from  her  the  personal  change 
in  him  produced  by  the  medical  irc-ajjncnt  of  the  fits,  what 
would  happen?  Nothing  less  than  this:  Lucilla,  if  the  oper- 
ation succeeded,  would  find  out  for  herself — before  instead 
of  after  her  marriage — the  deception  that  had  been  practiced 
on  her.  And  how  she  might  resent  that  deception,  thus  dis- 
covered, the  cleverest  person  among  us  could  not  pretend  to 
foresee.  There  was  our  situation,  as  we  sat  in  domestic  par- 
liament assembled,  when  the  surgeons  had  left  us!) 

Finding  it  impossible  to  attract  his  brother's  attention, 
Nugent  had  no  alternative  but  to  interfere  actively  for  the 
first  time. 

"Let  me  suggest,  Lucilla,"  he  said,  "that  it  is  your  duty 
to  look  at  the  other  side  of  the  question  before  you  make  up 
your  mind.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  surely  hard  on  Oscar  to 
postpone  the  wedding-day  again.  In  the  second  place,  clever 
as  he  is,  Ilerr  Grosse  is  not  infallible.  It  is  just  possible  that 
the  operation  may  fail,  and  that  you  may  find  you  have  put 
off  your  marriage  for  three  months  to  no  purpose.  Do  think 


232  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

of  it !  If  you  defer  the  operation  on  your  eyes  till  after  your 
marriage,  you  conciliate  all  interests,  and  you  only  delay  by 
a  month  or  so  the  time  when  you  may  see." 

Lucilla  impatiently  shook  her  head. 

"  If  you  were  blind,"  she  answered,  you  would  not  willing- 
ly delay  by  a  single  hour  the  time  when  you  might  see. 
You  ask  me  to  think  of  it.  I  «'isk  you  to  think  of  the  years  I 
have  lost.  I  ask  you  to  think  of  the  exquisite  happiness  I 
shall  feel  when  Oscar  and  I  are  standing  at  the  altar;  if  I  can 
see  the  husband  to  whom  I  am  giving  myself  for  life !  Put 
it  off  for  a  month?  You  might  as  well  ask  me  to  die  for  a 
month.  It  is  like  death  to  be  sitting  here  blind,  and  to  know 
that  a  nun  is  within  a  few  hours'  reach  of  me  who  can  give 
me  my  sight !  I  tell  you  all  plainly,  if  you  go  on  opposing 
me  in  this,  I  don't  answer  for  myself.  If  He  IT  Grosse  is  not 
recalled  to  Dimcluirch  before  the  end  of  the  weok — I  am  my 
own  mistress — I  will  go  to  him  in  London  !" 

Both  the  brothers  looked  at  me. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say,  Madame  Pratolungo?"  asked 
Nugent. 

Oscar  was  too  painfully  agitated  to  speak.  He  softly 
crossed  to  my  chair;  and,  kneeling  by  me,  put  my  hand  en- 
treatingly  to  his  lips. 

You  may  consider  me  a  heartless  woman  if  you  will.  I 
remained  entirely  unmoved  even  by  this.  Lucilla's  interests 
and  my  interests,  you  will  observe,  were  now  one.  I  had  re- 
solved, from  the  first,  that  she  should  not  be  married  in  ig- 
norance of  which  was  the  man  who  was  disfigured  by  the 
blue  face.  If  she  took  the  course  which  would  enable  her  to 
make  that  discovery  for  herself,  at  the  right  time,  she  would 
spare  me  the  performance  of  a  vey  painful  and  ungracious 
duty,  and  she  would  marry,  as  I  was  determined  she  should 
marry,  with  a  full  knowledge  of  the  truth.  In  this  position 
of  affairs  it  was  no  business  of  mine  to  join  the  twin  brothers 
in  trying  to  make  her  alter  her  resolution.  On  the  contrary, 
it  was  my  business  to  confirm  her  in  it. 

"  I  can't  see  that  I  have  any  right  to  interfere,"  I  said. 
"  In  Lucilla's  place — after  one-and-twenty  years  of  blindness 
—  I  too  should  sacrifice  every  other  consideration  to  the  con- 
sideration of  recovering  my  siixht." 

Oscar  instantly  rose,  offended  with  me,  and  walked  away 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  233 

to  the  window.  Lucilla's  face  brightened  gratefully.  "Ah !" 
she  said,  "  you  understand  me !"  Nugent,  in  his  turn,  left 
his  chair  He  had  confidently  calculated,  in  his  brother's  in- 
terests, on  Lucilla's  marriage  preceding  the  recovery  of  Lu- 
cilla's  sight.  That  calculation  was  completely  baffled.  The 
marriage  would  now  depend  on  the  state  of  Lucilla's  feelings 
after  she  had  penetrated  the  truth  for  herself.  I  saw  Nu- 
gent's  face  darken  as  he  walked  to  the  door. 

"  Madame  Pratolungo,"  he  said,  "  you  may,  one  day,  re- 
gret the  course  you  have  just  taken.  Do  as  you  please,  Lu- 
cilla — I  have  no  more  to  say." 

He  left  the  room,  with  a  quiet  submission  to  circumstances 
which  became  him  admirably.  Now,  as  always,  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  compare  him  advantageously  with  his  vacil- 
lating brother.  Oscar  turned  round  at  the  window,  appar- 
ently with  the  idea  of  following  Nugent  out.  At  the  first 
step  he  checked  himself.  There  was  a  last  effort  still  left  to 
make.  Reverend  Finch's  "  moral  weight "  had  not  been 
thrown  into  the  scale  yet. 

"  There  is  one  thing  more,  Lucilla,"  he  said,  "  which  you 
ought  to  know  before  you  decide.  I  have  seen  your  father. 
He  desires  me  to  tell  you  that  he  is  strongly  opposed  to  the 
experiment  which  you  are  determined  to  try." 

Lucilla  sighed  wearily.  "It  is  not  the  first  time  that  I 
find  my  father  failing  to  sympathize  with  me,"  she  said.  "I 
am  distressed — but  not  surprised.  It  is  you  who  surprise 
me !"  she  added,  suddenly  raising  her  voice.  "  You,  who 
love  me,  are  not  one  with  me,  when  I  am  standing  on  the 
brink  of  a  new  life.  Good  Heavens !  are  my  interests  not 
your  interests  in  this?  Is  it  not  worth  your  while  to  wait 
till  I  can  look  at  you  when  I  vow  before  God  to  love,  honor, 
and  obey  you?  Do  you  understand  him?"  she  asked,  ap- 
pealing abruptly  to  me.  "Why  does  he  try  to  start  diffi- 
culties? why  is  he  not  as  eager  about  it  as  I  am?" 

I  turned  to  Oscar.  Now  was  the  time  for  him  to  fall  at 
her  feet  and  own  it !  Here  was  the  golden  opportunity  that 
might  never  come  again.  I  signed  to  him  impatiently  to 
take  it.  He  tried  to  take  it — let  me  do  him  the  justice  now 
which  I  failed  to  do  him  at  the  time— he  tried  to  take  it. 
He  advanced  toward  her;  he  struggled  with  himself;  he  said, 
"There  is  a  motive  for  my  conduct,  Lucilla —  "  and  r.topped. 


234  POOK    MISS    FINCH. 

His  breath  failed  him ;  lie  struggled  again ;  he  forced  out  a 
word  or  two  more:  "A  motive,"  he  went  on,  "  which  I  have 
been  afraid  to  confess —  He  paused  again,  with  the  perspi- 
ration pouring  over  his  livid  face. 

Lucilla's  patience  failed  her.  "  What  is  your  motive  ?"  she 
asked,  sharply. 

The  tone  in  which  she  spoke  broke  down  his  last  reserves 
of  resolution.  He  turned  his  head  suddenly  so  as  not  to  see 
her.  At  the  final  moment — miserable,  miserable  man  ! — at 
the  final  moment  he  took  refuge  in  an  excuse. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  Herr  Grosse,"  he  said,  faintly,  "  as  you 
believe  in  him." 

Lucilla  rose,  bitterly  disappointed,  and  opened  the  door 
that  led  into  her  own  room. 

"If  it  had  been  you  who  were  blind,"  she  answered,  '•'•your 
belief  would  have  been  tny  belief,  and  your  hope  my  hope. 
It  seems  I  have  expected  too  much  from  you.  Live  and 
learn  !  live  and  learn  !" 

She  went  into  her  room  and  closed  the  door  on  us.  I  could 
bear  it  no  longer.  I  got  up,  with  the  firm  resolution  in  me 
to  follow  her  and  say  the  words  he  had  failed  to  say  for  him- 
self. My  hand  was  on  the  door,  when  I  was  suddenly  pulled 
back  from  it  by  Oscar.  I  turned  and  faced  him  in  silence. 

"No!"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  mine,  and  his  hand 
still  on  my  arm.  "If  I  don't  tell  her,  nobody  shall  tell  her 
for  me." 

"  She  shall  be  deceived  no  longer — she  must  and  shall  hear 
it,"  I  answered.  "  Let  me  go  !" 

"You  have  given  me  your  promise  to  wait  for  my  leave 
before  you  open  your  lips.  I  forbid  you  to  open  your  lips." 

I  snapped  the  fingers  of  my  hand  that  was  free  in  his  face. 
'•'•That  for  my  promise  !"  I  said.  "Your  contemptible  weak- 
ness is  putting  her  happiness  in  peril  as  well  as  yours."  I 
turned  my  head  toward  the  door,  and  called  to  her.  "Lu- 
cilla P 

His  hand  closed  fast  on  my  arm.  Some  lurking  devil  in 
him  that  I  had  never  seen  yet  leaped  up  and  looked  at  me 
out  of  his  eyes. 

"Tell  her,"  he  whispered,  savagely,  between  his  teeth, 
"and  I  will  contradict  you  to  your  face  !  If  you  are  desper- 
ate, I  am  desperate  too.  I  don't  rare  what  meanness  I  am 


POOR    5IISS    FINCH.  235 

guilty  of!  I  will  deny  it  on  my  honor;  I  will  deny  it  on  my 
oath.  You  heard  what  she  said  about  you  at  Browndown. 
She  will  believe  me  before  yon" 

Lucilla  opened  her  door,  and  stood  waiting  on  the  threshold. 

"  What  is  it?"  she  asked,  quietly. 

A  moment's  glance  at  Oscar  warned  me  that  he  would  do 

o 

what  he  had  threatened  if  I  persisted  in  my  resolution.  The 
desperation  of  a  weak  man  is,  of  all  desperations,  the  most 
unscrupulous  and  the  most  unmanageable — when  it  is  once 
roused.  Angry  as  I  was,  I  shrank  from  degrading  him,  as  I 
must  now  have  degraded  him  if  I  matched  my  obstinacy 
against  his.  In  mercy  to  both  of  them,  I  gave  way. 

"  I  may  be  going  out,  my  dear,  before  it  gets  dark,"  I  said 
to  Lucilla.  "  Can  I  do  any  thing  for  you  in  the  village?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  if  you  will  wait  a  little,  you  can  take  a 
letter  for  me  to  the  post." 

She  went  back  into  her  room,  and  closed  the  door. 

I  neither  looked  at  Oscar  nor  spoke  to  him  when  we  were 
alone  again.  He  was  the  first  who  broke  the  silence. 

"You  have  remembered  your  promise  to  me,"  he  said. 
"  You  have  done  well." 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you,"  I  answered.  "  I 
shall  go  to  my  room." 

His  eyes  followed  me  uneasily  as  I  walked  to  the  door. 

"  I  shall  speak  to  her,"  he  muttered,  doggedly,  "  at  my 
own  time." 

A  wise  woman  would  not  have  allowed  him  to  irritate  her 
into  saying  another  word.  Alas  !  I  am  not  a  wise  woman — 
that  is  to  say,  not  always. 

"Your  own  time?"  I  repeated,  with  the  whole  force  of 
my  contempt.  "  If  you  don't  own  the  truth  to  her  before  the 
German  surgeon  comes  back,  your  time  will  have  gone  by 
forever.  lie  has  told  us,  in  the  plainest  terms,  when  once 
the  operation  is  performed  nothing  must  be  said  to  agitate 
or  distress  her  for  months  afterward.  The  preservation  of 
her  tranquillity  is  the  condition  of  the  recovery  of  her  sight. 
You  will  soon  have  an  excuse  for  your  silence,  Mr.  Oscar 
Dubourg !'' 

The  tone  in  which  I  said  those  last  words  stung  him  to 
some  purpose. 

"Spare  your  sneers,  you  heartless  Frenchwoman  !"  he  broke 


236  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

out,  angrily.  "  I  don't  care  how  I  stand  in  your  estimation. 
Lucilla  loves  me.  Xugent  feels  for  me." 

My  vile  temper  instantly  hit  on  the  most  merciless  answer 
I  could  make  him  in  return. 

"  Ah,  poor  Lucilla  !"  I  said.  "  What  a  much  happier  pros- 
pect hers  might  have  been  !  What  a  thousand,  thousand 
pities  it  is  that  she  is  not  going  to  marry  your  brother  in- 
stead of  marrying  youF"1 

He  winced  under  that  reply  as  if  I  had  cut  him  with  a 
knife.  His  head  dropped  on  his  breast.  He  started  back 
from  me  like  a  beaten  dog,  and  suddenly  and  silently  left  the 
room. 

I  had  not  been  a  minute  by  myself  before  my  anger  cool- 
ed. I  tried  to  keep  it  hot ;  1  tried  to  remember  that  he  had 
aspersed  my  nation  in  calling  me  a  "heartless  Frenchwom- 
an." No !  it  was  not  to  be  done.  In  spite  of  myself  I  re- 
pented what  I  had  said  to  him. 

In  a  moment  I  was  out  on  the  stairs  to  try  if  I  could  over- 
take him. 

I  was  too  late.  I  heard  the  garden  gate  bang  before  I 
was  out  of  the  house.  Twice  I  approached  the  gate  to  fol- 
low him.  And  twice  I  drew  back  in  the  fear  of  making  bad 
Averse.  It  ended  in  my  return  to  the  sitting-room,  very  seri- 
ously dissatisfied  with  myself. 

The  first  welcome  interruption  to  my  solitude  came,  not 
from  Lucilla,  but  from  the  old  nurse.  Zillah  appeared  with 
a  letter  for  me:  left  that  moment  at  the  rectory  by  the  serv- 
ant from  Browndown.  The  direction  was  in  Oscar's  hand- 
writing. I  opened  the  envelope,  and  read  these  words: 

"MADAME  PRATOLUNGO, — You  have  distressed  and  pained 
me  more  than  I  can  say.  There  are  faults,  and  serious  ones, 
on  my  side,  I  know.  I  heartily  beg  your  pardon  for  any 
thing  that  I  may  have  said  or  done  to  offend,  you.  I  can  not 
submit  to  your  hard  verdict  on  me.  If  you  knew  how  I 
adore  Lucilla,  you  would  make  allowances  for  me — you 
would  understand  me  better  than  you  do.  I  can  not  get 
your  last  cruel  words  out  of  my  ears.  I  can  not  meet  yon 
again  without  some  explanation  of  them.  You  stabbed  me 
to  the  heart  when  you  said  this  evening  that  it  would  be  a 
happier  prospect  for  Lucilla  if  she  had  been  going  to  marry 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  237 

my  brother  instead  of  marrying  me.  I  hope  you  did  not  real- 
ly mean  that?  Will  you  please  write  and  tell  me  whether 
you  did  or  not?  OSCAR." 

Write  and  tell  him !  It  was  absurd  enough — when  we 
were  within  a  few  minutes'  walk  of  each  other — that  Oscar 
should  prefer  the  cold  formality  of  a  letter  to  the  friendly 
ease  of  a  personal  interview.  Why  could  he  not  have  called 
and  spoken  to  me?  We  should  have  made  it  up  together 
far  more  comfortably  in  that  way — and  in  half  the  time.  At 
any  rate,  I  determined  to  go  to  Browndown,  and  be  good 
friends  again,  viva  voce,  with  this  poor,  weak,  well-meaning, 
ill-judging  boy.  Was  it  not  monstrous  to  have  attached  se- 
rious meaning  to  what  Oscar  had  said  when  he  was  in  a  panic 
of  nervous  terror  !  His  tone  of  writing  so  keenly  distressed 
me  that  I  resented  his  letter  on  that  very  account.  It  was 
one  of  the  chilly  evenings  of  an  English  June.  A  small  fire 
was  burning  in  the  grate.  I  crumpled  up  the  letter,  and 
threw  it,  as  I  supposed,  into  the  fire.  (After-events  showed 
that  I  only  threw  it  into  a  corner  of  the  fender  instead.) 
Then  I  put  on  rny  hat,  without  stopping  to  think  of  Lucilla, 
or  of  what  she  was  writing  for  the  post,  and  ran  off"  to  Brown- 
down. 

Where  do  you  think  I  found  him?  Locked  up  in  his  own 
room!  His  insane  shyness  —  it  was  really  nothing  less — 
made  him  shrink  from  that  very  personal  explanation  which 
(with  such  a  temperament  as  mine)  was  the  only  possible  ex- 
planation under  the  circumstances.  I  had  to  threaten  him 
with  forcing  his  door  before  I  could  get  him  to  show  himself 
and  take  rny  hand. 

Once  face  to  face  with  him,  I  soon  set  things  right.  I  real- 
ly believe  he  had  been  half  mad  with  his  own  self-imposed 
troubles  when  he  had  threatened  giving  me  the  lie  at  the 
door  of  Lucilla's  room. 

It  is  needless  to  dwell  on  what  took  place  between  us.  I 
shall  only  say  here  that  I  had  serious  reason,  at  a  later  time 
— as  you  will  soon  see — to  regret  not  having  humored  Oscar's 
request  that  I  should  reconcile  myself  to  him  by  writing,  in- 
stead of  by  word  of  mouth.  If  I  had  only  placed  on  record, 
in  pen  and  ink,  what  I  actually  said  in  the  way  of  making 
atonement  to  him,  I  might  have  spared  some  suffering  to  my- 


•j:J8  POOR  MISS  FINCH. 

self  and  to  others.  As  it  was,  the  only  proof  that  I  had  ab- 
solved myself  in  his  estimation  consisted  in  his  cordially  shak- 
ing hands  with  me  at  the  door  when  I  left  him. 

"Did  you  meet  Nugent?"  he  asked,  as  he  walked  with  me 
across  the  inclosure  in  front  of  the  house. 

I  had  gone  to  Browndown  by  a  short-cut  at  the  back  of 
the  garden,  instead  of  going  through  the  village.  Having 
mentioned  this,  I  asked  if  Nugent  had  returned  to  the  rec- 
tory. 

"He  went  back  to  see  you,"  said  Oscar. 

«  Why  ?" 

"Only  his  usual  kindness.  He  takes  your  views  of  things. 
He  laughed  when  he  heard  I  had  sent  a  letter  to  you,  and  he 
ran  off  (dear  fellow!)  to  see  you  on  my  behalf.  You  must 
have  met  him  if  you  had  come  here  by  the  village." 

On  getting  back  to  the  rectory  I  questioned  Zillah.  Nu- 
gent, in  my  absence,  had  run  up  into  the  sitting-room ;  had 
waited  there  a  few  minutes  alonje,  on  the  chance  of  my  re- 
turn ;  had  got  tired  of  waiting,  and  had  gone  away  again.  I 
inquired  about  Lucilla  next.  A  few  minutes  after  Nugent 
had  gone  she  had  left  her  room,  and  she  too  had  asked  for 
me.  Hearing  that  I  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  house,  she 
had  given  Zillah  a  letter  to  post,  and  had  then  returned  to 
her  bed-chamber. 

I  happened  to  be  standing  by  the  hearth  looking  into  the 
dying  fire  while  the  nurse  was  speaking.  Not  a  vestige  of 
Oscar's  letter  to  me  (as  I  now  well  remember)  was  to  be  seen. 
In  my  position,  the  plain  conclusion  was  that  I  had  really 
done  what  I  supposed  myself  to  have  done — that  is  to  say, 
thrown  the  letter  into  the  flames. 

Entering  Lucilla's  room,  soon  afterward,  to  make  my  apol- 
ogies for  having  forgotten  to  wait  and  take  her  letter  to  the 
post,  I  found  her,  weary  enough  after  the  events  of  the  day, 
getting  ready  for  bed. 

"I  don't  wonder  at  your  being  tired  of  waiting  for  me," 
she  said.  "  Writing  is  long,  long  work  for  me.  But  this  was 
a  letter  which  I  felt  bound  to  write  myself  if  I  could.  Can 
you  guess  who  I  am  corresponding  with  ?  It  is  done,  my 
dear  !  I  have  written  to  Herr  Grosse  !" 

"Already!" 

"What  is  there  to  wait  for?     What  is  there  left  to  deter- 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  239 

mine  on?  I  have  told  Herr  Grosse  tliat  our  family  consulta- 
tion is  over,  and  that  I  am  entirely  at  his  disposal  for  any 
length  of  time  he  may  think  right.  And  I  warn  him,  if  he 
attempts  to  put  it  off,  that  he  will  be  only  forcing  on  me  the 
inconvenience  of  going  to  him  in  London.  I  have  expressed 
that  part  of  my  letter  strongly,  I  can  tell  you  !  He  will  get 
it  to-morrow  by  the  afternoon  post.  And  the  next  day — if 
he  is  a  man  of  his  word — he  will  be  here." 

"  Oh,  Lucilla !  not  to  operate  on  your  eyes?" 

"  Yes — to  operate  on  my  eyes !" 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-THIRD. 

THE    DAY    BETWEEN. 

THE  interval-day  before  the  second  appearance  of  Herr 
Grosse,  and  the  experiment  on  Lucilla's  sight  that  was  to  fol- 
low it,  was  marked  by  two  incidents  which  ought  to  be  no- 
ticed in  this  place. 

The  first  incident  was  the  arrival,  early  in  the  morning,  of 
another  letter  addressed  to  me  privately  by  Oscar  Dubourg. 
Like  many  other  shy  people,  he  had  a  perfect  mania,  where 
any  embarrassing  circumstances  were  concerned,  for  explain- 
ing himself,  with  difficulty,  by  means  of  his  pen,  in  preference 
to  explaining  himself,  with  ease,  by  means  of  his  tongue. 

Oscar's  present  communication  informed  me  that  he  had 
left  us  for  London  by  the  first  morning  train,  and  that  his 
object  in  taking  this  sudden  journey  was  to  state  his  pres- 
ent position  toward  Lucilla  to  a  gentleman  especially  con- 
versant with  the  peculiarities  of  blind  people.  In  plain  words, 
he  had  resolved  on  applying  to  Mr.  Sebright  for  advice. 

"I  like  Mr.  Sebright"  (Oscar  wrote)  "as  cordially  as  I  de- 
test Herr  Grosse.  The  short  conversation  I  had  with  him 
has  left  me  with  the  pleasantest  impression  of  his  delicacy 
and  his  kindness.  If  I  freely  reveal  to  this  skillful  surgeon 
the  sad  situation  in  which  I  am  placed,  I  believe  his  experi- 
ence will  throw  an  entirely  new  light  on  the  present  state  of » 
Lucilla's  mind,  and  on  the  changes  which  we  may  expect  to 
see  produced  in  her  if  she  really  does  recover  her  sight.  The 
result  may  be  of  incalculable  benefit  in  teaching  me  how  I 
may  own  the  truth  most  harmlessly  to  her  as  well  as  to  \\\\  - 


240  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

self.  Pray  don't  suppose  I  undervalue  your  advice.  I  only 
want  to  be  doubly  fortified,  before  I  risk  my  confession,  by 
the  advice  of  a  scientific  man." 

All  this  I  took  to  mean,  in  plain  English,  that  vacillating 
Oscar  wanted  to  quiet  his  conscience  by  gaining  time,  and 
that  his  absurd  idea  of  consulting  Mr.  Sebright  was  nothing 
less  than  a  new  and  plausible  excuse  for  putting  off  the  evil 
day.  His  letter  ended  by  pledging  me  to  secrecy,  and  by  en- 
treating me  so  to  manage  matters  as  to  grant  him  a  private 
interview  on  his  return  to  Dimchurch  by  the  evening  train. 

I  confess  I  felt  some  curiosity  as  to  what  would  come  of 
the  proposed  consultation  between  unready  Oscar  and  pre- 
cise Mr.  Sebright ;  and  I  accordingly  arranged  to  take  my 
walk  alone,  toward  eight  o'clock  that  evening,  on  the  road 
that  led  to  the  distant  railway  station. 

The  second  incident  of  the  day  may  be  described  as  a  con- 
fidential conversation  between  Lucilla  and  myself  on  the  sub- 
ject which  no\v  equally  absorbed  us  both — the  momentous 
subject  of  her  restoration  to  the  blessing  of  sight. 

She  joined  me  at  the  breakfast-table,  with  her  ready  dis- 
trust newly  excited,  poor  thing,  by  Oscar.  He  had  account- 
ed to  her  for  his  journey  to  London  by  putting  forward  the 
commonplace  excuse  of  "business."  She  instantly  suspected 
(knowing  how  he  felt  about  it)  that  he  was  secretly  bent  on 
interfering  with  the  performance  of  the  operation  by  Herr 
Grosse.  I  contrived  to  compose  the  anxiety  thus  aroused  in 
her  mind  by  informing  her,  on  Oscar's  own  authority,  that 
he  personally  disliked  and  distrusted  the  German  oculist. 
"Whatever  else  he  may  do  in  London,"  I  said, "  make  your 
mind  easy,  my  dear.  I  answer  for  his  not  venturing  near 
Herr  Grosse."' 

After  a  long  silence  between  us,  following  on  those  words, 
Lucilla  raised  her  head  from  her  second  cup  of  tea,  and  ab- 
ruptly referred  to  Oscar  in  another  way — a  way  which  re- 
vealed to  me  a  new  peculiarity  of  feeling  belonging  exclu- 
sively to  the  strange  temperament  of  the  blind. 

"Do  you  know  one  thing?"  she  said.  "  If  I  had  not  been 
going  to  be  married  to  Oscar,  I  doubt  if  I  should  have  cared 
to  put  any  oculist,  native  or  foreign,  to  the  trouble  of  coming 
to  Dimchurch." 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  241 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand  you,"  I  answered.  "  Yon 
can  not  surely  mean  to  say  that  you  would  not  have  been 
glad,  under  any  circumstances,  to  recover  the  use  of  your 
eyes  ?" 

"That  is  just  what  I  do  mean  to  say,"  she  rejoined. 

"What!  you,  who  have  been  blind  from  your  infancy, 
don't  care  to  see  V" 

"  I  only  care  to  see  Oscar.  And  what  is  more,  I  only  care 
to  see  him  because  I  am  in  love  with  him.  But  for  that,  I 
really  don't  feel  as  if  it  would  give  me  any  particular  pleas- 
ure to  use  my  eyes.  I  have  been  blind  so  long,  I  have 
learned  to  do  without  them." 

"Impossible!  My  dear  Liu-ilia,  I  really  can  not  believe 
you  are  in  earnest  in  talking  in  that  way !" 

She  laughed,  and  finished  her  tea. 

"  You  people  who  can  see,"  she  said, "  attach  such  an  ab- 
surd importance  to  your  eyes!  I  set  my  touch,  my  dear, 
against  your  eyes,  ns  much  the  most  trustworthy  and  much 
the  most  intelligent  sense  of  the  two.  If  Oscar  was  not,  as 
I  have  said,  the  uppermost  feeling  with  me,  shall  I  tell  you 
what  I  should  have  infinitely  preferred  to  recovering  my  sight 
— supposing  it  could  have  been  done?"  She  shook  her  head 
with  a  comic  resignation  to  circumstances.  "Unfortunately, 
it  can't  be  done  !" 

"  What  can't  be  done  ?" 

She  suddenly  held  out  both  her  arms  over  the  breakfast- 
table. 

"  The  stretching  out  of  these  to  an  enormous  and  unheard- 
of  length.  That  is  what.  I  should  have  liked !"  she  answered. 
"I  could  find  out  better  what  was  going  on  at  a  distance 
with  my  hands  than  you  could  with  your  eyes  and  your  tel- 
escopes. What  doubts  I  might  set  at  rest,  for  instance,  about 
the  planetary  system,  among  the  people  who  can  see,  if  I 
could  only  stretch  out  far  enough  to  touch  the  stars!" 

"This  is  talking  sheer  nonsense, Lucilla." 

"Is  it?  Just  tell  me  which  knows  best  in  the  dark — my 
touch  or  your  eyes?  Who  has  got  a  sense  that  she  can  al- 
'".iys  trust  to  serve  her  equally  well  through  the  whole  four- 
and-twenty  hours?  You  or  me?  But  for  Oscar — to  speak 
in  sober  earnest  this  time — I  tell  you  I  would  much  rather 
perfect  the  sense  in  me  that  I  have  already  got  thau  have  a 

L 


242  POOK   MISS   FINCH. 

sense  given  to  me  that  I  have  not  got.  Until  I  knew  Oscar  I 
don't  think  I  ever  honestly  envied  any  of  you  the  use  of  your 
eyes." 

"You  astonish  me,  Lucilla!" 

She  rattled  her  tea-spoon  impatiently  in  her  empty  cup. 

"  Can  you  always  trust  to  your  eyes,  even  in  broad  day- 
light?" she  burst  out.  "How  often  do  they  deceive  you  in 
the  simplest  things  !  What  did  I  hear  you  all  disputing 
about  the  other  day  in  the  garden?  You  were  looking  at 
some  view?" 

"Yes,  at  the  view  down  the  alley  of  trees  at  the  other  end 
of  the  church-yard  wall." 

"  Some  object  in  the  alley  had  attracted  general  notice — 
had  it  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  an  object  at  the  further  end  of  it." 

"  I  heard  you  up  here.  You  all  differed  in  opinion,  in  spite 
of  your  wonderful  eyes.  My  father  said  it  moved.  You  said 
it  stood  still.  Oscar  said  it  was  a  man.  Mrs.  Finch  said  it 
was  a  calf.  Nugent  ran  oft*  and  examined  this  amazing  ob- 
ject at  close  quarters.  And  what  did  it  turn  out  to  be  ?  A 
stump  of  an  old  tree,  blown  across  the  road  in  the  night ! 
Why  am  I  to  envy  people  the  possession  of  a  sense  which 
plays  them  such  tricks  as  that?  No!  no!  Herr  Grosse  is 
going  to  '  cut  into  my  cataracts,'  as  he  calls  it — because  I  am 
going  to  be  married  to  a  man  I  love ;  and  I  fancy,  like  a  fool, 
I  may  love  him  better  still  if  I  can  see  him.  I  may  be  quite 
wrong,"  she  added,  archly.  "It  may  end  in  my  not  loving 
him  half  as  well  as  I  do  now  !" 

I  thought  of  Oscar's  face,  and  felt  a  sickening  fear  that  she 
might  be  speaking  far  more  seriously  than  she  suspected.  I 
tried  to  change  the  subject.  No!  Her  imaginative  nature 
had  found  its  way  into  a  new  region  of  speculation  before  I 
could  open  my  lips. 

"  I  associate  light,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "  with  all  that  is 
beautiful  and  heavenly,  and  dark  with  all  that  is  vile  and  hor- 
rible and  devilish.  I  wonder  how  light  and  dark  will  look 
to  me  when  I  see  ?" 

"I  believe  they  will  astonish  you,"  I  answered,  "  by  being 
entirely  unlike  what  you  fancy  them  to  be  now." 

She  started.     I  had  alarmed  her  without  intending  it. 

"  Will  Oscar's  face  be  utterly  unlike  what  I  fancy  it  to  be 


POOU   MISS    FINCH.  243 

uow  ?"  she  asked,  in  suddenly  altered  tones.  "Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  I  have  not  had  the  right  image  of  him- in  my  mind 
all  this  time?" 

i  tried  again  to  draw  her  off  to  another  topic.  What  more 
could  I  do,  with  my  tongue  tied  by  the  German's  warning  to 
us  not  to  agitate  her  in  the  face  of  the  operation  to  be  per- 
formed on  tiie  next  day  ? 

it  was  quite  useless.  She  went  on,  as  before,  without  heed- 
ing me. 

"Have  I  no  means  of  judging  rightly  what  Oscar  is  like?" 
she  said.  "  I  touch  my  own  face;  I  know  how  long  it  is,  and 
how  broad  it  is ;  I  know  how  big  the  different  features  aiv, 
and  where  they  are.  And  then  I  touch  Oscar,  and  compare 
his  face  with  my  knowledge  of  my  own  face.  Not  a  single 
detail  escapes  me.  I  see  him  in  my  mind  as  plainly  as  you 
see  me  across  this  table.  Do  you  mean  to  say,  when  I  see 
him  with  my  eyes,  that  I  shall  discover  something  perfectly 
new  to  me  ?  I  don't  believe  it !"  She  started  up  impatiently, 
and  took  a  turn  in  the  room.  "Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
stamp  of  her  foot,  "  why  can't  I  take-  laudanum  enough  or 
chloroform  enough  to  kill  me  for  the  next  six  weeks,  and  then 
come  to  life  again  when  the  German  takes  the  bandage  oft' 
my  eyes!"  She  sat  down  once  more,  and  drifted  all  on  a 
sudden  into  a  question  of  pure  morality.  "Tell  me  this,"  she 
said.  "  Is  the  greatest  virtue  the  virtue  which  it  is  most 
difficult  to  practice?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  I  answered. 

She  drummed  with  both  hands  on  the  table,  petulantly, 
viciously, as  hard  as  she  could.  "Then,  Madame  Pratolungo," 
she  said,  ''the  greatest  of  all  the  virtues  is — Patience.  Oh, 
my  friend,  how  I  hate  the  greatest  of  all  the  virtues  at  this 
moment. !" 

That  ended  it — there  the  conversation  found  its  way  into 
other  topics  at  last. 

Thinking  afterward  of  the  strange  tilings  which  Lucilla 
had  said  to  me,  I  derived  one  consolation  from  what  had 
passed  at  the  breakfast-table.  If  Mr.  Sebright  proved  to  be 
right,  and  if  the  operation  failed  after  all,  I  hrul  Lueilla's 
word  for  it  that  blindness,  of  itself,  is  not  the  terrible  afflic- 
tion to  the  blind  which  the  rest  of  us  fancy  it  to  be — because 
we  can  see. 


244  POOR   MISS   FIjSCH. 

Toward  half-past  seven  in  the  evening  I  went  out  alone,  as 
I  had  planned,  to  meet  Oscar  on  his  return  from  London. 

At  a  long  straight  stretch  of  the  road  I  saw  him  advancing 
toward  me.  He  was  walking  more  rapidly  than  usual,  and 
singing  as  he  walked.  Even  through  its  livid  discoloration 
the  poor  fellow's  face  looked  radiant  with  happiness  as  lie 
came  nearer.  He  waved  his  walking-stick  exultingly  in  the 
air.  "Good  news!"  he  called  out  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
" Mr.  Sebright  has  made  me  a  happy  man  again!"  I  had 
never  before  seen  him  so  like  Nugent  in  manner  as  I  now 
saw  him  when  we  met  and  he  shook  hands  with  me. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,"  I  said. 

He  gave  me  his  arm;  and',  talking  all  the  way,  we  walked 
back  slowly  to  Dimchurch. 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  began,  "Mr.  Sebright  holds  to  his 
own  opinion  more  firmly  than  ever.  He  feels  absolutely  cer- 
tain that  the  operation  will  fail." 

"Is  that  your  good  news?"  I  asked,  reproachfully. 

"No,"  he  said.  ''Though,  mind,  I  own  to  my  shame  there 
was  a  time  when  I  almost  hoped  it  would  fail.  Mr. Sebright 
has  put  me  in  a  better  frame  of  mind.  I  have  little  or  nothing 
to  dread  fro:n  the  success  of  the  operation,  if  by  any  extraor- 
dinary chance  it  should  succeed.  I  remind  you  of  Mr.  Se- 
bright's  opinion  merely  to  give  you  a  right  idea  of  the  tone 
which  he  took  with  me  at  starting.  He  only  consented  un- 
der protest  to  contemplate  the  event  which  Lucilla  and  Herr 
Grosse  consider  to  be  a  certainty.  'If  the  statement  of  your 
position  requires  it,'  he  said, 'I  will  admit  that  it  is  barely 
possible  she  may  be  able  to  see  you  two  months  hence.  Now 
begin.'  I  began  by  informing  him  of  my  marriage  engage- 
ment." 

"Shall  I  tell  how  Mr.  Sebright  received  the  information?" 
I  said.  "  He  held  his  tongue,  and  made  you  a  bow." 

Oscar  laughed.  "Quite  true,"  lie  answered.  "I  told  him 
next  of  Lucilla's  extraordinary  antipathy  to  dark  people,  and 
dark  shades  of  color  of  all  kinds.  Can  you  guess  what  lie 
said  to  me  when  I  had  done  ?" 

I  owned  that  my  observation  of  Mr.  Sebright's  character 
did  not  extend  to  guessing  that. 

"He  said  it  was  a  common  antipathy  in  his  experience  of 
the  blind.  It  was  one  among  the  many  strange  influences 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  245 

exercised  by  blindness  on  the  mind.  'The  physical  affliction 
lias  its  mysterious  moral  influence,' he  said.  'We  can  ob- 
serve it,  but  we  can't  explain  it.  The  special  antipathy  which 
you  mention  is  an  incurable  antipathy,  except  on  one  condi- 
tion— the  recovery  of  the  sight.'  There  he  stopped.  I  en- 
treated him  to  go  on.  No  !  He  declined  to  go  on  until  I  had 
finished  what  I  had  to  say  to  him  first.  I  had  my  confession 
still  to  make  to  him — and  I  made  it." 

"You  concealed  nothing?" 

"Nothing.  I  laid  my  weakness  bare  before  him.  I  told 
him  that  Lucilla  was  still  firmly  convinced  that  Nugent's  was 
the  discolored  face  instead  of  mine.  And  then  I  put  the 
question — What  am  I  to  do  ?" 

"  And  how  did  he  reply  ?" 

"  In  these  words :  '  If  you  ask  me  what  you  are  to  do  in  the 
event  of  her  remaining  blind  (which  I  tell  you  again  will  be  the 
event),  I  decline  to  advise  you.  Your  own  conscience  and 
your  own  sense  of  honor  must  decide  the  question.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  you  ask  me  what  you  are  to  do  in  the  event 
of  her  recovering  her  sight,  I  can  answer  you  unreservedly 
in  the  plainest  terms.  Leave  things  as  they  are,  and  wait 
till  she  sees.'  Those  were  his  own  words.  Oh,  the  load  that 
they  took  off  my  mind  !  I  made  him  repeat  them — I  declaro 
I  was  almost  afraid  to  trust  the  evidence  of  my  own  ears." 

I  understood  the  motive  of  Oscar's  good  spirits  better  than 
I  understood  the  motive  of  Mr.  Scbright's  advice.  "Did  he 
give  his  reasons?"  I  asked. 

"You  shall  hear  his  reasons  directly.  lie  insisted  on  first 
satisfying  himself  that  I  thoroughly  understood  my  position 
at  that  moment.  'The  prime  condition  of  success,  as  Ilerr 
Grosse  has  told  you,' he  said,  'is  the  perfect  tranquillity  of 
your  patient.  If  you  make  your  confession  to  the  young 
lady  when  you  get  back  to-night  to  Dimchurch,  you  throw 
her  into  a  state  of  excitement  which  will  render  it  impossible 
for  my  German  colleague  to  operate  on  her  to-morrow.  If 
you  defer  your  confession,  the  medical  necessities  of  the  case 
force  you  to  be  silent  until  the  professional  attendance  of  the 
oculist  has  ceased.  There  is  your  position  !  My  advice  to 
you  is  to  adopt  the  last  alternative.  Wait  (and  make  the 
other  persons  in  the  secret  wait)  until  the  result  of  the  oper- 
ation has  declared  itself.'  There  I  stopped  him.  'Do  you 


24G  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

mean  that  I  am  to  be  present  on  the  first  occasion  when  she 
is  able  to  use  her  eyes  ?'  I  asked.  '  Am  I  to  let  her  see  me 
without  a  word  beforehand  to  prepare  her  for  the  color  of  my 
face?'" 

We  were  now  getting  to  the  interesting  part  of  it.  Yon 
English  people,  when  you  are  out  walking  and  are  carrying 
on  a  conversation  with  your  friend,  never  come  to  a  stand- 
still at  the  points  of  interest.  We  foreigners,  on  the  other 
hand,  invariably  stop.  I  surprised  Oscar  by  suddenly  pull- 
ing him  up  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Go  on  !"  I  said,  impatiently. 

"  I  can't  go  on,"  he  rejoined.     "You're  holding  me." 

I  held  him  tighter  than  ever,  and  ordered  him  more  reso- 
lutely than  ever  to  go  on.  Oscar  resigned  himself  to  a  halt 
(foreign  fashion)  on  the  high-road. 

"Mr.  Sebright  met  my  question  by  putting  a  question  on 
his  side,"  he  resumed.  "  He  asked  me  how  I  proposed  to  pre- 
pare her  for  the  color  of  my  lace." 

"And  what  did  you  tell  him?" 

"  I  said  I  had  planned  to  make  an  excuse  for  leaving  Dim- 
church,  and,  once  away,  to  prepare  her  by  writing  for  what 
she  might  expect  to  see  when  I  returned." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  that  ?" 

"He  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  He  said,  'I  strongly  recommend 
you  to  be  present  on  the  first  occasion  when  she  is  capable 
(if  she  ever  is  capable)  of  using  her  sight.  I  attach  the  great- 
est importance  to  her  being  able  to  correct  the  hideous  and 
absurd  image  now  in  her  mind  of  a  face  like  yours,  by  seeing 
you  as  you  really  are  at  the  earliest  available  opportunity.'" 

We  were  just  walking  on  again  when  certain  words  in 
that  last  sentence  startled  me.  I  stopped  short  once  more. 

"Hideous  and  absurd  image?"  I  repeated,  thinking  in- 
stantly of  my  conversation  of  that  morning  with  Lucilla. 
"What  did  Mr.  Sebright  mean  by  using  such  language  as 
that?" 

"Just  what  I  asked  him.  His  reply  will  interest  you.  It 
led  him  into  that  explanation  of  his  motives  which  yon  in- 
quired for  just  now.  Shall  we  walk  on?" 

My  petrified  foreign  feet  recovered  their  activity.  We 
went  on  a^ain. 


POOIt   MISS    FINCH.  247 

"When  I  had  spoken  lo  Mr.  Sebright  of  Lucilla's  inveter- 
ate prejudice,"  Oscar  continued,  "he  had  surprised  me  by 
saying  that  it  was  common  in  his  experience,  and  was  only 
curable  by  her  restoration  to  sight.  In  support  of  those  as- 
sertions lie  now  told  me  of  two  interesting  cases  which  had 
occurred  in  his  professional  practice.  The  first  was  the  case 
of  the  little  daughter  of  an  Indian  officer — blind  from  infancy, 
like  Lucilla.  After  operating  successfully,  the  time  came  when 
he  could  permit  his  patient  to  try  her  sight — that  is  to  say,  to 
try  if  she  could  see  sufficiently  well  at  first  to  distinguish 
dark  objects  from  light.  Among  the  members  of  the  house- 
hold assembled  to  witness  the  removal  of  the  bandage  was 
an  Indian  nurse  who  had  accompanied  the  family  to  England. 
The  first  person  the  child  saw  was  her  mother — a  fair  wom- 
an. She  clasped  her  little  hands  in  astonishment,  and  that 
was  all.  At  the  next  turn  of  her  head  she  saw  the  dark  In- 
dian nurse,  and  instantly  screamed  with  terror.  Mr.  Sebright 
owned  to  me  that  he  could  not  explain  it.  The  child  could 
have  no  possible  association  with  colors.  Yet  there,  never- 
theless, was  the  most  violent  hatred  and  horror  of  a  dark 
object  (the  hatred  and  horror  peculiar  to  the  blind)  express- 
ing itself  unmistakably  in  a  child  often  years  old  !  My  first 
thought,  while  he  was  telling  me  this,  was  of  myself,  and  of 
my  chance  with  Lucilla.  My  first  question  was, 'Did  the 
child  get  used  to  the  nurse?'  I  can  give  you  his  answer  in 
his  own  words.  'In  a  week's  time  I  found  the  child  sitting 
in  the  nurse's  lap  as  composedly  as  I  am  sitting  in  this  chair.' 
That  is  encouraging,  isn't  it?" 

"  Most  encouraging — nobody  can  deny  it." 

"The  second  instance  was  more  curious  still.  This  time 
the  case  was  the  case  of  a  grown  man — and  the  object  was 
to  show  me  what  strange  fantastic  images  (utterly  unlike  the 
reality)  the  blind  form  of  the  people  about  them.  The  pa- 
tient was  married,  and  was  to  see  his  wife  (as  Lucilla  is  one 
day  to  see  me)  for  the  first  time.  He  had  been  told  before 
he  married  her  that  she  was  personally  disfigured  by  the  scar 
of  a  wound  on  one  of  her  cheeks.  The  poor  woman — ah,  how 
well  I  can  understand  her! — trembled  for  the  consequences. 
The  man  who  had  loved  her  dearly  while  he  was  blind  might 
hate  her  when  he  saw  her  scarred  face.  Her  husband  had 
been  the  first  to  console  her  when  the  operation  was  deter- 


248  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

rained  on.  He  declared  that  his  sense  of  touch,  and  the  de- 
scription given  to  him  by  others,  had  enabled  him  to  form,  in 
his  own  mind,  the  most  complete  and  faithful  image  of  his 
wife's  face.  Nothing  that  Mr.  Sebright  could  say  would  in- 
duce him  to  believe  that  it  was  physically  impossible  for  him 
to  form  a  really  correct  idea  of  any  object,  animate  or  inani- 
mate, which  he  had  never  seen.  He  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  He 
was  so  certain  of  the  result  that  he  held  his  wife's  hand  in 
his,  to  encourage  her,  when  the  bandage  was  removed  from 
him.  At  his  first  look  at  her  he  uttered  a  cry  of  horror,  and 
fell  back  in  his  chair  in  a  swoon.  His  wife,  poor  thing,  was 
distracted.  Mr.  Sebright  did  his  best  to  compose  her,  and 
waited  till  her  husband  was  able  to  answer  the  questions  put 
to  him.  It  then  appeared  that  his  blind  idea  of  his  Avife  and 
of  her  disfigurement  had  been  something  so  grotesque  and 
horribly  unlike  the  reality  that  it  was  hard  to  know  whether 
to  laugh  or  to  tremble  at  it.  She  was  as  beautiful  as  an  an- 
gel, by  comparison  with  her  husband's  favorite  idea  of  her — 
and  yet,  because  it  teas  his  idea,  he  was  absolutely  disgusted 
and  terrified  at  the  first  sight  of  her '.  In  a  few  weeks  he  was 
able  to  compare  his  wife  with  other  women,  to  look  at  pict- 
ures, to  understand  what  beauty  was,  and  what  ugliness  was ; 
and  from  that  time  they  have  lived  together  as  happy  a  mar- 
ried couple  as  any  in  the  kingdom." 

I  was  not  quite  sure  which  way  this  last  example  pointed. 
It  alarmed  me  when  I  thought  of  Lucilla.  I  came  to  a  stand- 
still again. 

"  How  did  Mr.  Sebright  apply  this  second  case  to  Lucilla 
and  to  you  ?"  I  asked. 

"You  shall  hear,"  said  Oscar.  "He  first  appealed  to  the 
case  as  supporting  his  assertion  that  Lucilla's  idea  of  me  must 
be  utterly  unlike  what  I  am  myself.  He  asked  if  I  was  now 
satisfied  that  she  could  have  no  correct  conception  of  what 
faces  and  colors  were  really  like,  and  if  I  agreed  with  him  in 
believing  that  the  image  in  her  mind  of  the  man  with  the 
blue  face  was  in  all  probability  something  fantastically  and 
hideously  unlike  the  reality.  After  what  I  had  heard,  I 
agreed  with  him  as  a  matter  of  course.  '  Very  well,'  says  Mr. 
Sebright.  '  Now  let  us  remember  that  there  is  one  important 
difference  between  the  case  of  Miss  Finch  and  the  case  that 
I  have  just  mentioned.  The  husband's  blind  idea  of  his  wife 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  249 

was  the  husband's  favorite  idea.  The  shock  ot'tho  first  sight 
of  her  was  plainly  a  shock  to  him  on  that  account.  Now  Miss 
Finch's  blind  idea  of  the  blue  face  is,  on  the  contrary,  a  hateful 
idea  to  her — the  image  is  an  image  that  she  loathes.  Is  it  not 

o  o 

fair  to  conclude  from  this  that  the  first  sight  of  you  as  you 
really  are  is  likely  to  be,  in  her  case,  a  relief  to  her  instead 
of  a  shock  ?  Reasoning  from  my  experience,  I  reach  that 
conclusion ;  and  I  advise  you,  in  your  own  interests,  to  be 
present  when  the  bandage  is  taken  off.  Even  if  I  prove  to 
be  mistaken — even  if  she  is  not  immediately  reconciled  to 
the  sight  of  you — there  is  the  other  example  of  the  child  and 
the  Indian  nurse  to  satisfy  you  that  it  is  only  a  question  of 
time.  Sooner  or  later  she  will  take  the  discovery  as  any 
other  young  lady  would  take  it.  At  first  she  will  be  indig- 
nant with  you  for  deceiving  her;  and  then,  if  you  are  sure 
of  your  place  in  her  affections,  she  will  end  in  forgiving  you. 
There  is  my  view  of  your  position,  and  there  are  the  grounds 
on  which  I  form  it !  In  the  mean  time  my  own  opinion  re- 
mains unshaken.  I  firmly  believe  that  you  will  never  have 
occasion  to  act  on  the  advice  that  I  have  given  to  you.  When 
the  bandage  is  taken  off,  the  chances  are  five  hundred  to  one 
that  she  is  no  nearer  to  seeing  you  then  than  she  is  now.' 
These  were  his  last  words — and  on  that  we  parted." 

Oscar  and  I  walked  on  again  for  a  little  way  in  silence. 

I  had  nothing  to  say  against  Mr.  Sebright's  reasons;  it  was 
impossible  to  question  the  professional  experience  from  which 
they  were  drawn.  As  to  blind  people  in  general,  I  felt  no 
doubt  that  his  advice  was  good,  and  that  his  conclusions 
were  arrived  at  correctly.  But  Lucilla's  was  no  ordinary 
character.  My  experience  of  her  was  better  experience  than 
Mr.  Sebright's:  and  the  more  I  thought  of  the  future,  the  less 
inclined  I  felt  to  take  Oscar's  hopeful  view.  She  was  just  the 
person  to  say  something  or  do  something,  at  the  critical  mo- 
ment of  the  experiment,  which  would  take  the  wisest  previ- 
ous calculation  by  surprise.  Oscar's  prospects  had  never 
looked  darker  to  me  than  they  looked  at  that  moment. 

It  would  have  been  useless  and  cruel  to  have  said  to  him 
what  I  have  just  said  here.  I  put  as  bright  a  face  on  it  as  I 
could,  and  asked  if  he  proposed  to  follow  Mr.  Sebright's  advice. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "With  a  certain  reservation  of  my  own, 
which  occurred  to  me  after  I  had  left  his  house." 

L2 


250  POOR  MISS   PINCH. 

"  May  I  ask  what  it  is  ?" 

"Certainly.  I  mean  to  beg  Nugent  to  leave  Dimchurch 
before  Lucilla  tries  her  sight  for  the  first  time.  He  will  do 
that,  I  know,  to  please  me." 

"  And  when  he  has  done  it,  what  then  ?" 

"Then  I  mean  to  be  present — as  Mr.  Sebright  suggested — 
when  the  bandage  is  taken  off." 

"Previously  telling  Lucilla,"  I  interposed,  "that  it  is  you 
who  are  in  the  room  ?" 

"  No.  There  I  take  the  precaution  that  I  alluded  to  just 
now.  I  propose  to  leave  Lucilla  under  the  impression  that 
it  is  I  who  have  left  Dimchurch,  and  that  Nugent's  face  is 
the  face  she  sees.  If  Mr.  Sebright  proves  to  be  right,  and  if 
her  first  sensation  is  a  sensation  of  relief,  I  will  own  the  truth 
to  her  the  same  day.  If  not,  I  will  wait  to  make  my  confes- 
sion until  she  has  become  reconciled  to  the  sight  of  me.  That 
plan  meets  every  possible  emergency.  It  is  one  of  the  few 
good  ideas  that  my  stupid  head  has  hit  on  since  I  have  been 
at  Dimchurch." 

He  said  those  last  words  with  such  an  innocent  air  of  tri- 
umph that  I  really  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  dump  his 
ardor  by  telling  him  what  I  thought  of  his  idea.  All  I  said 
was,  "  Don't  forget,  Oscar,  that  the  cleverest  plans  are  at  the 
mercy  of  circumstances.  At  the  last  moment,  an  accident 
may  happen  which  will  force  you  to  speak  out." 

We  came  in  sight  of  the  rectory  as  I  gave  him  that  final 
warning.  Nugent  was  strolling  up  and  down  the  road  on 
the  look-out  for  us.  I  left  Oscar  to  tell  his  story  over  again 
to  his  brother,  and  went  into  the  house. 

Lucilla  was  at  her  piano  when  I  entered  the  sitting-room. 
She  was  not  only  playing,  but  (a  rare  thing  with  her)  singing 
too.  The  song  was,  poetry  and  music  both,  of  her  own  com- 
posing. "I  shall  see  him  !  I  shall  see  him  !"  In  those  four 
words  the  composition  began  and  ended.  She  adapted  them 
to  all  the  happy  melodies  in  her  memory.  She  accompanied 
them  with  hands  that  seemed  to  be  mad  for  joy — hands  that 
threatened  every  moment  to  snap  the  chords  of  the  instru- 
ment. Never,  since  my  first  day  at  the  rectory,  had  I  heard 
such  a  noise  in  our  quiet  sitting-room  as  I  heard  now.  She 
was  in  a  fever  of  exhilaration  which,  in  my  foreboding  frame 
of  mind  at  that  moment,  it  pained  and  shocked  me  to  see. 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  251 

1  u'fted  her  off  the  music-stool,  and  shut  up  the  piano  by 
main  force. 

"Compose  yourself,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  I  said.  "Do  you 
want  to  be  completely  exhausted  when  the  German  comes 
to-morrow  ?" 

That  consideration  instantly  checked  her.  She  suddenly 
became  quiet,  with  the  abrupt  facility  of  .1  child. 

"  I  forgot  that,"  she  said,  sitting  down  in  a  corner,  with  a 
face  of  dismay.  "He  might  refuse  to  perform  the  operation ! 
Oh,  my  dear,  quiet  me  down  somehow.  Get  a  book  and  read 
to  me." 

I  got  the  book.  Ah,  the  poor  author !  Neither  she  nor  I 
paid  the  slightest  attention  to  him.  Worse  still,  we  abused 
him  for  not  interesting  us — and  then  shut  him  up  with  a  bang, 
and  pushed  him  rudely  into  his  place  on  the  book-shelf,  and 
left  him  upside  down,  and  went  to  bed. 

She  was  standing  at  her  window  when  I  went  in  to  wish 
her  good-night.  The  mellow  moonlight  fell  tenderly  on  her 
lovely  face.  "Moon  that  I  have  never  seen,"  she  murmured, 
softly,  "  I  leel  you  looking  at  me  !  Is  the  time  coming  when 
/shall  look  at  You?"  She  turned  from  the  window,  and 
eagerly  put  my  fingers  on  her  pulse.  "Am  I  quite  composed 
again  ?"  she  asked.  "  Will  he  find  me  well  to-morrow  ?  Feel 
it!  feel  it!  Is  it  quiet  now?"  I  felt  it — throbbing  faster 
and  faster.  "Sleep  will  quiet  it,"  I  said,  and  kissed  her  and 
left  her. 

She  slept  well.  As  for  me,  I  passed  such  a  wretched  night, 
and  got  up  so  completely  worn  out,  that  I  had  to  go  back 
to  my  room  after  breakfast,  and  lie  down  again.  Lucilla 
persuaded  me  to  do  it.  "HerrGrosse  won't  be  here  till  the 
afternoon,"  she  said.  "Rest  till  he  comes." 

We  had  reckoned  without  allowing  for  the  eccentric  char- 
acter of  our  German  surgeon.  Excepting  the  business  of 
his  profession,  Herr  Grosse  did  every  thing  by  impulse,  and 
nothing  by  rule.  I  had  not  long  fallen  into  a  broken,  un- 
refreshing  sleep,  when  I  felt  Zillah's  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
and  heard  Zillah's  voice  in  my  ear. 

"Please  to  get  up,  ma'am!  lie's  here — he  has  come  from 
London  by  the  morning  train." 

I  hurried  into  the  sittinsi-room. 


252  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

There,  at  the  table,  sat  He  IT  Grosse,  with  an  open  instru- 
ment-case before  him ;  his  wild  black  eyes  gloating  over  a 
hideous  array  of  scissors,  probes,  and  knives,  and  his  shabby 
hat  hard  by,  with  lint  and  bandages  huddled  together  any- 
how inside  it.  And  there  stood  Lucilla  by  his  side,  stooping 
over  him — with  one  hand  laid  familiarly  on  his  shoulder,  and 
with  the  other  deftly  fingering  one  of  his  horrid  instruments 
to  find  out  what  it  was  like ! 


1'OOU   MISS   FINCH.  253 


PART  THE  SECOND. 
CHAPTER    THE    THIRTY  -  FOURTH. 

NUGENT  SHOWS  HIS  HAND. 

I  CLOSED  the  First  Part  of  ray  narrative  on  the  day  of  the 
operation — the  twenty-fifth  of  June. 

I  open  the  Second  Part,  between  six  and  seven  weeks  later, 
on  the  ninth  of  August. 

How  did  the  time  pass  at  Dimehurch  in  that  interval  ? 

Searching  backward  in  my  memory,  I  call  to  life  again  the 
domestic  history  of  the  six  weeks.  It  looks,  on  retrospection, 
miserably  dull  and  empty  of  incident.  I  wonder,  when  I 
contemplate  it  now,  how  we  got  through  that  weary  inter- 
val— how  we  bore  that  forced  inaction,  that  unrelieved  op- 
pression of  suspense. 

Changing  from  bedroom  to  sitting-room,  from  sitting-room 
back  to  bedroom,  with  the  daylight  always  shut  out,  with  the 
bandages  always  on  except  when  the  surgeon  looked  at  her 
eyes,  Lucilla  bore  the  imprisonment  —  and,  worse  than  the 
imprisonment,  the  uncertainty  —  of  her  period  of  probation 
with  the  courage  that  can  endure  any  thing,  the  courage 
sustained  by  Hope.  With  books,  with  music,  with  talk — 
above  all,  with  Love  to  help  her — she  counted  her  way  calm- 
ly through  the  dull  succession  of  hours  and  days  till  the  time 
came  which  was  to  decide  the  question  in  dispute  between 
the  oculists — the  terrible  question  of  which  of  the  two,  Mr. 
Sebright  or  Herr  Grosse,  was  right. 

I  was  not  present  at  the  examination  which  finally  decided 
all  doubt.  I  joined  Oscar  in  the  garden — quite  as  incapable 
as  he  was  of  exerting  the  slightest  self-control.  We  paced 
silently  backward  and  forward  on  the  lawn,  like  two  animals 
in  a  cage.  Zillah  was  the  only  witness  present  when  the 
German  examined  our  poor  darling's  eyes,  Nugent  enijaccinc: 
to  wait  in  the  next  room  and  announce  the  result  from  the 
window.  As  the  event  turned  out,  Herr  Grosse  was  before- 
hand with  him.  Once  more  we  heard  his  broken  English 


254  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

shouting,  "Hi-hi-hoi!  hoi-hi!  hoi-hi!"    Once  more  we  beheld 

o  / 

his  huge  silk  handkerchief  waving  at  the  window.     I  turned 

o  *--? 

sick  and  faint  under  the  excitement  of  the  moment — under 
the  rapture  (it  was  nothing  less)  of  hearing  those  three  elec- 
trifying words,  "  She  will  see  !"  Mercy  !  how  we  did  abuse 
Mr.  Sebright,  when  we  were  all  reunited  again  in  Lucilla's 
room  ! 

The  first  excitement  over,  we  had  our  difficulties  to  con- 
tend with  next. 

From  the  moment  when  she  was  positively  informed  that 
the  operation  had  succeeded,  our  once  patient  Lucilla  de- 
veloped into  a  new  being.  She  now  rose  in  perpetual  revolt 
against  the  caution  which  still  deferred  the  day  on  which 
she  was  to  be  allowed  to  make  the  first  trial, of  her  sight.  It 
required  all  my  influence,  backed  by  Oscar's  entreaties,  and 
strengthened  by  the  furious  foreign  English  of  our  excellent 
German  surgeon  (Herr  Grosse  had  a  temper  of  his  own,  I  can 
tell  you!)  to  prevent  her  from  breaking  through  the  medical 
discipline  which  held  her  in  its  grasp.  When  she  became 
quite  unmanageable,  and  vehemently  abused  him  to  his  face, 
our  good  Grosse  used  to  swear  at  her,  in  a  compound  bad 
language  of  his  own,  with  a  tremendous  aspiration  at  the 
beginning  of  it,  which  always  set  matters  right  by  making 
her  laugh.  I  see  him  again  as  I-  write,  leaving  the  room  on 

O  O  /  d? 

these  occasions,  with  his  eyes  blazing  through  his  spectacles, 
and  his  shabby  hat  cocked  sideways  on  his  head.  "Soh,  you 
little-spitfire-Feench  !  If  you  touch  that  bandages  when  I 
have  put  him  on — IIo-Damn-Damn  !  I  say  no  more.  Good- 
by!" 

From  Lucilla  I  turn  to  the  twin  brothers  next. 

Tranquilized  as  to  the  future,  after  his  interview  with  Mr. 
Sebright,  Oscar  presented  himself  at  his  best  during  the  time 
of  which  I  am  now  writing.  Lucilla's  main  reliance,  in  her 
days  in  the  darkened  room,  was  on  what  her  lover  could  do 
to  relieve  and  to  encourage  her.  He  never  once  failed  her; 
his  patience  was  perfect ;  his  devotion  was  inexhaustible.  It 
is  sad  to  say  so,  in  view  of  what  happened  afterward ;  but  I 
only  tell  a  necessary  truth  when  I  declare  that  he  immensely 
strengthened  his  hold  on  her  affections  in  those  last  days  of 
her  blindness,  when  his  society  was  most  precious  to  her. 
Ah,  how  fervently  she  used  to  talk  of  him  when  she  and  1 


POOR    MISS    KIXCII.  255 

were  left  together  at  night!  Forgive  me  it' I  leave  this  part 
of  the  history  of  the  courtship  untold.  I  don't  like  to  write  of 
it — I  don't  like  to  think  of  it.  Let  us  get  on  to  something  else. 

Nugent  comes  next.  I  would  give  a  great  deal,  poor  as  I 
am,  to  be  able  to  leave  him  out.  It  is  not  to  be  done.  1 
must  write  about  that  lost  wretch,  and  you  must  read  about 
him,  whether  we  like  it  or  not. 

The  days  of  Lucilla's  imprisonment  were  also  the  days 
when  my  favorite  disappointed  me  for  the  first  time,  lie 
and  his  brother  seemed  to  change  places.  It  was  Nugent 
how  who  appeared  to  disadvantage  by  comparison  with 
Oscar.  He  surprised  and  grieved  his  brother  by  leaving 
Browndown.  "All  I  can  do  for  you,  I  have  done,"  he  said. 
"I  can  be  of  no  further  use  for  the  present  to  any  body.  Let 
me  go.  I  am  stagnating  in  this  miserable  place — I  must  and 
will  have  change."  Oscar's  entreaties,  in  Nugent's  present 
frame  of  mind,  i'ailed  to  move  him.  Away  he  went  one 
morning,  without  bidding  any  body  good-by.  He  had  talked 
of  being  absent  for  n  week — he  remained  away  for  a  month. 
We  heard  of  him  leading  a  wild  life  among  a  vicious  set  of 
men.  It  was  reported  that  a  frantic  restlessness  possessed 
him  which  nobody  could  understand.  He  came  back  as  sud- 
denly as  he  had  left  us.  His  variable  nature  had  swung 
round,  in  the  interval,  to  the  opposite  extreme.  He  was  full 
of  repentance  for  his  reckless  conduct;  he  was  in  a  state  of 
depression  which  defied  rousing;  he  despaired  of  himself  and 
his  future.  Sometimes  lie  talked  of  going  back  to  America, 
and  sometimes  he  threatened  to  close  his  career  by  enlisting 
as  a  private  soldier.  Would  any  other  person,  in  my  place, 
have  seen  which  way  these  signs  pointed?  I  doubt  it,  if  that 
person's  mind  had  been  absorbed,  as  mine  was,  in  watching 
Lucilla  day  by  day.  Even  if  I  had  been  a  suspicious  woman 
by  nature — which,  thank  (iod,  I  am  not — my  distrust  must 
have  lain  dormant, in  the  rill-subduing  atmosphere  of  suspense 
hanging  heavily  on  me  morning,  noon,  and  night  in  the  dark- 
ened room. 

So  much,  briefly,  for  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  persons 
principally  concerned  in  this  narrative,  during  the  six  weeks 
which  separate  Part  the  First  from  Part  the  Second. 

I  begin  again  on  the  ninth  of  August. 


256  POOK    MISS    F1XCH. 

This  was  the  memorable  day  chosen  by  Herr  Grosse  for 
risking  the  experiment  of  removing  the  bandage,  and  per- 
mitting Lucilla  to  try  her  sight  for  the  first  time.  Conceive 
for  yourselves  (don't  ask  me  to  describe)  the  excitement  that 
raged  in  our  obscure  little  circle,  now  that  we  were  standing 
face  to  face  with  that  grand  Event  in  our  lives  which  I 
promised  to  relate  in  the  opening  sentence  of  these  pages. 

I  was  the  earliest  riser  at  the  rectory  that  morning.  My 
excitable  French  blood  was  in  a  fever.  I  was  irresistibly  re- 
minded of  myself  at  a  time  long  past — the  time  when  my 
glorious  Pratolungo  and  I,  succumbing  to  Fate  and  tyrants, 
lied  to  England  for  safety  :  martyrs  to  that  ungrateful  Re- 
public (long  live  the  Republic!)  for  which  I  laid  down  my 
money  and  my  husband  his  life. 

I  opened  my  window,  and  hailed  the  good  omen  of  sunrise 
in  a  clear  sky.  Just  as  I  was  turning  away  again  from  the 
view,  I  saw  a  figure  steal  out  from  the  shrubbery  and  appear 
on  the  lawn.  The  figure  came  nearer.  I  recognized  Oscar. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  there,  at  this  time  in 
the  morning  ?"  I  called  out. 

He  lifted  his  finger  to  his  lips,  and  came  close  under  my 
window  before  he  answered. 

"Hush!"  he  said.  "Don't  let  Lucilla  hear  you.  Come 
down  to  me  as  soon  as  you  can.  I  am  waiting  to  speak  to 
you." 

When  I  joined  him  in  the  garden  I  saw  directly  that  some- 
thing had  gone  wrong.  "Bad  news  from  Browndown?"  I 
asked. 

"Nugent  has  disappointed  me,"  he  answered.  "Do  yon 
remember  the  evening  when  you  met  me  after  my  consulta- 
tion with  Mr.  Sebright  ?" 

"Perfectly." 

"I  told  you  that  I  meant  to  ask  Nugent  to  leave  Dim- 
church  on  the  day  when  Lucilla  tried  her  sight  for  the  first 
time." 

"Well?" 

"  Well — he  refuses  to  leave  Dimchurch." 

•'Have  you  explained  your  motives  to  him?" 

"Carefully,  before  I  asked  him  to  go.  T  told  him  how  im- 
possible it  was  to  say  what  might  happen.  I  reminded  him 
that  it  might  be  of  the  utmost  importance  to  me  to  preserve 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  257 

tho  impression  now  in  Lucilla's  mind — for  a  certain  time 
only — after  Lucilla  could  see.  I  promised,  the  moment  she 
became  reconciled  to  the  sight  of  me,  to  recall  him,  and  in 
his  presence  to  tell  her  the  truth.  All  that  I  said  to  him — 
and  how  do  yon  think  he  answered  me?" 

"Did  he  positively  refuse?" 

"  No.  He  walked  away  from  me  to  the  window,  and  con- 
sidered a  little.  Then  he  turned  round  suddenly  and  said, 
'  What  did  you  tell  me  was  Mr.  Sebright's  opinion  ?  Mr.  Se- 
bright  thought  she  would  be  relieved  instead  of  being  terri- 
fied. In  that  case,  what  need  is  there  for  me  to  go  away  ? 
You  can  acknowledge  at  once  that  she  has  seen  your  face, 
and  not  mine.'  He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  when  he  had 
said  that  (you  know  Nugent's  downright  way),  and  turned 
back  to  the  window  as  if  he  had  settled  every  thing." 

"  What  did  you  say,  on  your  side  ?" 

"  I  said,  '  Suppose  Mr.  Sebright  is  wrong  ?'  He  only  an- 
swered, 'Suppose  Mr.  Sebright  is  right?'  I  followed  him  to 
the  window — I  never  heard  him  speak  so  sourly  to  me  as  lie 
spoke  at  that  moment.  'What  is  your  objection  to  going 
away  for  a  day  or  two?'  I  asked.  'My  objection  is  soon 
stated,'  he  answered.  '  I  am  sick  of  these  everlasting  com- 
plications. It  is  useless  and  cruel  to  carry  on  the  deception 
any  longer.  Mr.  Sebright's  advice  is  the  wise  advice  and  the 
right  advice.  Let  her  see  you  as  you  are.'  With  that  an- 
swer, he  walked  out  of  the  room.  Something  1ms  upset  him 
— I  can't  imagine  what  it  is.  Do,  pray,  see  what  you  can 
make  of  him  !  My  only  hope  is  in  you." 

I  own  I  felt  reluctant  to  interfere.  Suddenly  and  strange- 
ly as  Nugent  had  altered  his  point  of  view,  it  seemed  to  me 
undeniable  that  Nugent  Avas  right.  At  the  same  time,  Oscar 
looked  so  disappointed  and  distressed  that  it  was  really  int- 
possible,  on  that  day  above  all  others,  to  pain  him  addition- 
ally by  roundly  saying  No.  I  undertook  to  do  what  I  could 
— and  I  inwardly  hoped  that  circumstances  would  absolve 
me  from  the  necessity  of  doing  any  thing  at  all. 

Circumstances  failed  to  justify  my  selfish  confidence  in 
them. 

I  was  out  in  the  village  after  breakfast,  on  a  domestic  er- 
rand connected  with  the  necessary  culinary  preparations  for 
the  reception  of  Ho  IT  Grosse,  when  I  heard  my  name  pro- 


258  POOR  MISS 

isouneed  behind  me,  and,  turning  round,  found  myself  face  to 
face  with  Nugent. 

"Has  my  brother  been  bothering  you  this  morning,"  he 
asked,  "  before  I  was  up?" 

I  instantly  noticed  a  return  in  him,  as  he  said  that,  to  the 
same  dogged,  ungracious  manner  which  had  perplexed  and 
displeased  me  at  my  last  confidential  interview  with  him  in 
the  rectory  garden. 

"  Oscar  has  been  speaking  to  me  this  morning,"  I  replied. 

<;  About  me  ?" 

"About  you.  You  have  distressed  and  disappointed 
him— " 

"  I  know  !  I  know !  Oscar  is  worse  than  a  child.  I  am 
beginning  to  lose  all  patience  with  him." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that,  Nugent.  You  have 
borne  with  him  so  kindly  thus  far — surely  you  can  make  al- 
lowance for  him  to-day.  His  whole  future  may  depend  on 
what  happens  in  Lucilla's  sitting-room  a  few  hours  hence." 

"  He  is  making  a  mountain  out  of  a  mole-hill — and  so  are 
you." 

Those  words  were  spoken  bitterly,  almost  rudely.  I  an- 
swered sharply  on  my  side. 

"  You  are  the  last  person  living  who  has  any  right  to  say 
that.  Oscar  is  in  a  false  position  toward  Lucilla,  with  your 
knowledge  and  consent.  In  your  brother's  interests  you 
agreed  to  the  fraud  that  has  been  practiced  on  her.  In  your 
brother's  interests,  again,  you  are  asked  to  leave  Dimchurch. 
Why  do  you  refuse?" 

"I  refuse  because  I  have  come  round  to  your  way  of  think- 
ing. What  did  you  say  of  Oscar  and  of  me  in  the  summer- 
house?  You  said  we  were  taking  a  cruel  advantage  of  Lu- 
cilla's blindness.  You  were  right.  It  loas  cruel  not  to  have 
told  her  the  truth.  I  won't  be  a  party  to  concealing  the 
truth  from  her  any  longer !  I  refuse  to  persist  in  deceiving 
her — in  meanly  deceiving  her — on  the  day  when  she  recovers 
her  sight !" 

It  is  entirely  beyond  my  power  to  describe  the  tone  in 
which  he  made  that  reply.  I  can  only  declare  that  it  struck 
me  dumb  for  the  moment.  I  drew  a  step  nearer  to  him. 
Will)  vague  misgivings  in  me,  I  looked  him  searchingly  in 
the  face.  He  looked  back  at  me  without  shrinking. 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  259 

"Well?"  ho  asked,  with  a  hard  smile  which  defied  me  to 
put  him  in  the  wrong. 

I  could  discover  nothing  in  his  face;  I  could  only  follow 
my  instincts  as  a  woman.  Those  instincts  warned  me  to  ac- 
cept his  explanation. 

"  I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  you  have  decided  on  stay- 
in<_T  here?"  I  said. 

"  Certainly !" 

"  What  do  you  propose  to  do  when  Herr  Grosse  arrives, 
and  we  assemble  in  Litcilla's  room  ?" 

"I  propose  to  be  present  among  the  rest  of  you  at  the 
nmst  interesting  moment  of  Luc-ilia's  life." 

"  No  !  you  don't  propose  that !" 

"  I  do !" 

"  You  have  forgotten  something,  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg." 

"What  is  it,  Madame  Pratolungo?" 

"  You  have  forgotten  that  Lucilla  believes  the  brother  with 
the  discolored  face  to  be  You,  and  the  brother  with  the  fair 
complexion  to  be  Oscar.  You  have  forgotten  that  the  sur- 
geon has  expressly  forbidden  us  to  agitate  her  by  entering 
into  any  explanations  before  he  allows  her  to  use  her  eyes. 
You  have  forgotten  that  the  very  deception  which  you  have 
just  positively  refused  to  go  on  with  will  be,  nevertheless,  a 
deception  continued,  if  you  are  present  when  Lucilla  sees. 
Your  own  resolution  pledges  yon  not  to  enter  the  rectory 
doors  until  Lucilla  has  discovered  the  truth."  In  those  words 
I  closed  the  vice  on  him.  I  had  got  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg ! 

lie  turned  deadly  pale.  His  eyes  dropped  before  mine  for 
the  first  time. 

"  Thank  you  for  reminding  me,"  he  said.  "  I  had  for- 
gotten." 

lie  pronounced  those  submissive  words  in  a  suddenly  low- 
ered voice.  Something  in  his  tone,  or  something  in  the  drop- 
ping of  his  eyes,  set  my  heart  beating  quickly,  with  a  certain 
vague  expectation  which  I  was  unable  to  realix.e  to  myself. 

"You  agree  with  me,"  I  said,  "that  you  can  not  be  one 
among  us  at  the  rectory?  What  will  you  do?" 

"I  will  remain  at  Browndown,"  he  answered. 

I  felt  he  was  lying.  Don't  ask  for  my  reasons:  I  have  no 
reasons  to  give.  When  he  said,  "  1  will  remain  at  Brown- 
down,"  I  felt  he  was  lying. 


2CO  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

"Why  not  do  what  Oscar  asks  of  you?"  I  went  on.  "If 
you  arc  absent,  you  may  as  well  be  in  one  place  as  in  an- 
other. There's  plenty  of  time  still  to  leave  Dirnchurch." 

He  looked  up  as  suddenly  as  he  had  looked  down. 

"  Do  you  and  Oscar  think  me  a  stock  or  a  stone?"  he  burst 
out,  angrily. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Who  are  you  indebted  to  for  what  is  going  to  happen 
to-day?"  he  went  on,  more  and  more  passionately.  "You 
are  indebted  to  Me.  Who  among  you  all  stood  alone  in  re- 
fusing to  believe  that  she  was  blind  for  life  !  I  did !  Who 
brought  the  man  here  who  lias  given  her  back  her  sight?  I 
brought  the  man  !  And  I  am  the  one  person  who  is  to  be 
left  in  ignorance  of  how  it  ends.  The  others  are  to  be  pres- 
ent :  I  am  to  be  sent  away.  The  others  are  to  see  it :  I  am 
to  hear  by  post  (if  any  of  you  think  of  writing  to  me)  what 
she  does,  what  she  says,  how  she  looks,  at  the  first  heavenly 
moment  when  she  opens  her  eyes  on  the  world."  He  flung 
up  his  hand  in  the  air,  and  burst  out  savagely  with  a  bitter 
laugh.  "I  astonish  you,  don't  I?  I  am  claiming  a  position 
which  I  have  no  right  to  occupy.  What  interest  can  7"  feel 
in  it  ?  Oh  God  !  what  do  ./care  about  the  woman  to  whom 
I  have  given  a  new  life !"  His  voice  broke  into  a  sob  at 
those  last  wild  words.  He  tore  at  the  breast  of  his  coat  as 
if  he  was  suffocating,  and  turned  and  left  me. 

I  stood  rooted  to  the  spot.  In  one  breathless  instant  the 
truth  broke  on  me  like  a  revelation.  At  last  I  had  pene- 
trated the  terrible  secret.  Nugent  loved  her. 

My  first  impulse,  when  I  recovered  myself,  hurried  me  at 
the  top  of  my  speed  back  to  the  rectory.  For  a  moment  or 
two  I  think  I  must  really  have  lost  my  senses.  I  felt  a  fran- 
tic suspicion  that  he  had  gone  into  the  house,  and  that  he 
was  making  his  way  to  Lucilla  at  that  moment.  When  I 
found  that  all  was  quiet — when  Zillah  had  satisfied  mo  that 
no  visitor  had  come  near  our  side  of  the  rectory — I  calmed 
down  a  little,  and  Aver.t  back  to  the  garden  to  compose  my- 
self before  I  ventured  into  Lucilla's  presence. 

After  a  while  I  got  over  the  first  horror  of  it,  and  saw  my 
own  position  plainly.  There  was  not  a  living  soul  at  Dim- 
church  in  whom  I  could  confide.  Come  what  might  of  it,  in 
this  dreadful  emergency,  I  must  trust  in  myself  alone. 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  201 

I  had  just  arrived  at  tliat  startling  conclusion  ;  I  had  shed 
some  bitter  tears  when  I  remembered  how  hardlv  I  had 
judged  poor  Oscar  on  more  than  one  occasion;  I  had  de- 
cided that  my  favorite  Nugent  was  the  most  hateful  villain 
living,  and  that  I  would  leave  nothing  undone  that  the  craft 
of  a  woman  could  compass  to  drive  him  out  of  the  place — 
when  I  was  forced  hack  to  present  necessities  by  the  sound 
of  Zillah's  voice  calling  to  me  from  the  house.  I  went  to 
her  directly.  The  nurse  had  a  message  for  me  from  her 
young  mistress.  My  poor  Lueilla  was  lonely  and  anxious: 
she  was  surprised  at  my  leaving  her;  she  insisted  on  seeing 
me  immediately. 

I  took  my  first  precaution  against  a  surprise  from  Nugent, 
as  I  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door. 

"  Our  dear  child  must  not  be  disturbed  by  visitors  to-day," 
I  said  to  Zillali.  "If  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg  comes  here  and 
asks  for  her,  don't  tell  Lucilla;  tell  «//-." 

This  said,  I  went  up  stairs  and  joined  my  darling  in  the 
darkened  room. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-FIFTH. 

LUCILLA    TRIES    HEU    SIGHT. 

SHE  was  sitting  alone  in  the  dim  light,  with  the  bandage 
over  her  eyes,  with  her  pretty  hands  crossed  patiently  on 
her  lap.  My  heart  swelled  in  me  as  I  looked  at  her,  and 
felt  the  horrid  discovery  that  I  had  made  still  present  in  my 
mind.  "Forgive  me  for  leaving  you,"  I  said,  in  as  steady  a 
voice  as  I  could  command  at  the  moment,  and  kissed  her. 

She  instantly  discovered  my  agitation,  carefully  as  I 
thought  I  had  concealed  it. 

"  You  are  frightened  too  !"  she  exclaimed,  taking  my  hands 
ir.  hers. 

"Frightened, my  love?"  I  repeated.  (I  was  perfectly  stu- 
pefied ;  I  really  did  not  know  what  to  say  !) 

"Yes.  Now  the  time  is  so  near  I  feel  my  courage  failing 
me.  I  forbode  all  sorts  of  horrible  things.  Oh,  when  will  it 
be  over?  What  will  Oscar  look  like  when  I  see  him?'' 

I  answered  the  first  question.  Who  could  answer  the 
second  ? 


202  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

"Ilerr  G rosso  comes  to  us  by  the  morning  train,"  I  said. 
"It  will  soon  be  over." 

"Where  is  Oscar?" 

"  On  his  way  here,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"Describe  him  to  me  once  more,"  she  said, eagerly.  "For 
the  last  time  before  I  see.  His  eyes,  his  hair,  his  complexion 
— every  thing !" 

How  I  should  have  got  through  the  painful  task  which 
she  had  innocently  imposed  on  me,  if  I  had  attempted  to 
perform  it,  I  hardly  like  to  think.  To  my  infinite  relief,  I 
was  interrupted  at  my  first  word  by  the  opening  of  the  door, 
and  the  sudden  appearance  of  a,  family  deputation  in  the 
room. 

First,  strutting  with  slow  and  solemn  steps,  with  one  hand 
laid  pathetically  on  the  breast  of  his  clerical  waistcoat,  ap- 
peared Reverend  Finch.  After  him  came  his  wife,  shorn  of 
all  her  proper  accompaniments,  except  the  baby.  Without 
her  novel,  without  her  jacket,  petticoat,  or  shawl,  without 
even  the  handkerchief  which  she  was  always  losing — clothed, 
for  the  first  time  in  my  experience,  in  a  complete  gown — the 
metamorphosis  of  damp  Mrs.  Finch  was  complete.  But  for 
the  baby  I  believe  I  should  have  taken  her,  in  the  dim  light, 
for  a  stranger!  She  stood  (apparently  doubtful  of  her  re- 
ception) hesitating  in  the  door-way,  and  so  hiding  a  third 
member  of  the  deputation,  -who  appealed  piteously  to  the 
general  notice  in  a  small  voice  which  I  knew  well,  and  in  a 
form  of  address  familiar  to  me  from  past  experience. 

"Jicks  wants  to  come  in." 

The  rector  took  his  hand  from  his  waistcoat,  and  held  it 
up  in  faint  protest  against  the  intrusion  of  the  third  member. 
Mrs.  Finch  moved  mechanically  into  the  room.  Jicks  ap- 
peared, hugging  her  disreputable  doll,  and  showing  signs  of 
recent  wandering  in  the  white  dust  which  dropped  on  the 
carpet  from  her  frock  and  her  shoes,  as  she  advanced  toward 
the  place  in  which  I  was  sitting.  Arrived  in  front  of  me, 
she  peered  quaintly  up  at  my  face  through  the  obscurity  of 
the  room,  lifted  her  doll  by  the  legs,  hit  me  a  smart  rap  with 
the  head  of  it  on  my  knee,  and  said, 

"  Jicks  will  sit  here." 

I  rubbed  my  knee,  and  enthroned  Jicks  as  ordered.  At 
the  same  time  Mr.  Finch  solemnly  stalked  up  to  his  daugh- 


POOIl    MISS   FINCH.  263 

ter,  laid  his  hands  on  her  head,  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling, 
and  said,  in  bass  notes  that  rumbled  with  paternal  emotion, 
"  Bless  you,  my  child  !" 

At  the  sound  of  her  husband's  magnificent  voice  Mrs. 
Find)  became  herself  again.  She  said,  meekly, "  How  d'ye  do, 
Lucilla?"  and  sat  down  in  a  corner,  and  suckled  the  baby. 

Mr.  Finch  set  in  for  one  of  his  harangues. 

"My  advice  has  been  neglected,  Lucilla.  My  paternal  in- 
fluence has  been  repudiated.  My  Moral  Weight  has  been, 
so  to  speak,  set  aside.  I  don't  complain.  Understand  me — 
I  simply  state  sad  facts."  (Here  lie  became  aware  of  my  ex- 
istence.) "  Good  -  morning,  Madame  Pratolungo;  I  hope  I 
see  you  well? — There  has  been  variance  between  us,  Lucilla. 
I  come,  my  child,  with  healing  on  my  wings  (healing  being 
understood,  for  present  purposes,  as  reconciliation) — I  come 
and  bring  Mrs.  Finch  with  me — don't  speak,  Mrs.  Finch! — 
to  offer  my  heartfelt  wishes,  my  fervent  prayers,  on  this  the 
most  eventful  day  in  my  daughter's  life.  No  vulgar  curi- 
osity has  turned  my  steps  this  way.  No  hint  shall  escape 
my  lips  touching  any  misgivings  which  I  may  still  feel  as  to 
this  purely  worldly  interference  with  the  ways  of  an  inscru- 
table Providence.  I  am  here  as  parent  and  peace-maker. 
My  wife  accompanies  me — don't  speak,  Mrs.  Finch  ! — as  step- 
parent and  step-peace-maker.  (You  understand  the  distinc- 
tion, Madame  Pratolungo?  Thank  you.  Good  creature.) 
Shall  I  preach  forgiveness  of  injuries  from  the  pulpit,  and  not 
practice  that  forgiveness  at  home?  Can  I  remain,  on  this 
momentous  occasion,  at  variance  with  my  child?  Lucilla! 
I  forgive  you.  With  full  heart  and  tearful  eyes,  I  forgive 
you.  (You  have  never  had  any  children,  I  believe,  Madame 
Pratolungo?  Ah!  you  can  not  possibly  understand  this. 
Not  your  fault.  Good  creature,  not  your  fault.)  The  kiss 
of  peace,  my  child  ;  the  kiss  of  peace."  lie  solemnly  bent 
his  bristly  head,  and  deposited  the  kiss  of  peace  on  Lucilla's 
forehead.  He  sighed  superbly,  and,  in  a  burst  of  magnanim- 
ity, held  out  his  hand  next  to  me.  "My  Hand,  Madame  Pra- 
tolungo. Compose  yourself.  Don't  cry.  God  bless  you  !" 
Mrs.  Finch,  deeply  affected  by  her  husband's  noble  conduct, 
began  to  sob  hysterically.  The  baby,  disarranged  in  his 
proceedings  by  the  emotions  of  his  mamma,  set  up  a  sympa 
thetic  scream.  Mr.  Finch  crossed  the  room  to  them,  with 


204  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

domestic  healing  on  his  wings.  "This  does  you  credit,  Mrs. 
Finch  ;  but,  under  the  circumstances,  it  must  not  be  contin- 
ued. Control  yourself,  in  consideration  of  the  infant.  Mys- 
terious mechanism  of  Nature !"  cried  the  rector,  raising  his 
prodigious  voice  over  the  louder  and  louder  screeching  of 
the  baby.  "  Marvelous  and  beautiful  sympathy  which  makes 
the  maternal  sustenance  the  conducting  medium,  as  it  were, 
of  disturbance  between  mother  and  child.  What  problems 
confront  us,  what  forces  environ  us, even  in  this  mortal  life! 
Nature!  Maternity!'  Inscrutable  Providence !" 

"Inscrutable  Providence"  was  the  rector's  fatal  phrase — 
it  always  brought  with  it  an  interruption ;  and  it  brought 
one  now.  Before  Mr.  Finch  (brimful  of  pathetic  apostrophes) 
could  burst  into  more  exclamations,  the  door  opened,  and  Os- 
car walked  into  the  room. 

Lucilla  instantly  recognized  his  footsteps. 

"Any  signs,  Oscar,  of  Heir  Grosse?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes.  His  chaise  has  been  seen  on  the  road.  He  will  be 
here  directly." 

Giving  that  answer,  and  passing  by  my  chair  to  place  him- 
self on  the  other  side  of  Lucilln,  Oscar  cast  at  me  one  im- 
ploring look — a  look  which  said  plainly,  "Don't  desert  me 
when  the  time  comes!"  I  nodded  my  head  to  show  that  I 
understood  him  and  felt  for  him.  He  sat  down  in  the  va- 
cant chair  by  Lucilla,  and  took  her  hand  in  silence.  It  was 
hard  to  say  which  of  the  two  felt  the.position,  at  that  trying 
moment,  most  painfully.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  any  sight 
so  simply  and  irresistibly  touching  as  the  sight  of  those  two 
poor  young  creatures  sitting  hand  in  hand,  waiting  the  event 
which  was  to  make  the  happiness  or  the  misery  of  their  fu- 
ture lives. 

"Have  you  seen  any  thing  of  your  brother?"  I  asked,  put- 
ting the  question  in  as  careless  a  tone  as  my  devouring  anxi- 
ety would  allow  me  to  assume. 

"  Nugent  has  gone  to  meet  Herr  Grosse." 

Oscar's  eyes  once  more  encountered  mine,  as  he  replied  in 
those  terms ;  I  saw  again  the  imploring  look  more  marked 
in  them  than  ever.  It  was  plain  to  him,  as  it  was  plain  to 
me,  that  Nugent  had  gone  to  meet  the  German  with  the 
purpose  of  making  Herr  Grosse  the  innocent  means  of  bring- 
ing him  into  the  house. 


POOIl   MISS    FINCH.  255 

Before  I  could  speak  again,  Mr.  Finch,  recovering  himself 
after  the  interruption  which  had  silenced  him,  saw  his  oppor- 
tunity of  setting  in  for  another  harangue.  Mrs.  Finch  had 
left  oft"  sobbing ;  the  baby  had  left  off  screaming ;  the  rest 
of  us  were  silent  and  nervous.  In  a  word,  Mr.  Finch's  do- 
mestic congregation  was  entirely  at  Mr.  Finch's  mercy.  He 
strutted  up  to  Oscar's  chair.  Was  he  going  to  propose  to 
read  "Hamlet?"  No!  He  was  going  to  invoke  a  blessing 
on  Oscar's  head. 

"On  this  interesting  occasion,"  began  the  rector,  in  his 
pulpit  tones, "  now  that  we  are  all  united  in  the  same  room, 
all  animated  by  the  same  hope,  I  could  wish,  as  pastor  and 
parent  (God  bless  you,  Oscar;  I  look  on  you  as  a  son.  Mrs. 
Finch,  follow  my  example,  look  on  him  as  a  son !) — I  could 
wish,  as  pastor  and  parent,  to  say  a  few  pious  and  consoling 
words — " 

The  door — the  friendly,  admirable,  judicious  door — stop- 
ped the  coming  sermon,  in  the  nick  of  time,  by  opening  again. 
Herr  Grosse's  squat  figure  and  owlish  spectacles  appeared  on 
the  threshold.  And  behind  him  (exactly  as  I  had  antici- 
pated) stood  Nugent  Dubourg. 

Lucilla  turned  deadly  pale ;  she  had  heard  the  door  open ; 
she  knew  by  instinct  that  the  surgeon  had  come.  Oscar  got 
up,  stole  behind  my  chair,  and  whispered  to  me,  "  For  God's 
sake,  get  Nugent  out  of  the  room !"  I  gave  him  a  re-assur- 
ing squeeze  of  the  hand,  and,  putting  Jicks  down  on  the  floor, 
rose  to  welcome  our  good  Grosse. 

The  child,  as  it  happened,  was  beforehand  with  me.  She* 
and  the  illustrious  oculist  had  met  in  the  garden  at  one  of 
the  German's  professional  visits  to  Lucilla,  and  had  taken  an 
amazing  fancy  to  each  other.  Herr  Grosse  never  afterward 
appeared  at  the  rectory  without  some  unwholesome  eatable 
thing  in  his  pocket  for  Jicks;  who  gave  him  in  return  nt 
many  kisses  as  he  might  ask  for,  and  further  distinguished 
him  as  the  only  living  creature  whom  she  permitted  to  nurse 
the  disreputable  doll.  Grasping  this  same  doll  now  with 
both  hands,  and  using  it  head-foremost  as  a  kind  of  batter- 
ing-ram, Jicks  plunged  in  front  of  me,  and  butted  with  all 
her  might  at  the  surgeon's  bandy-legs,  insisting  on  a  mo- 
nopoly of  his  attention  before  he  presumed  to  speak  to  any 
other  person  in  the  room.  While  he  was  lifting  her  to  a 

M 


266  POOR   MISS   F1XCH. 

level  with  his  face,  and  talking  to  her  in  his  wonderful  bro- 
ken English — while  the  rector  and  Mrs.  Finch  were  making 

o  o 

the  necessary  apologies  for  the  child's  conduct  —  Nugent 
came  round  from  behind  He  IT  Grosse,  and  drew  me  mysteri- 
ously into  a  corner  of  the  room.  As  I  followed  him  I  satf 
the  silent  torture  of  anxiety  expressed  in  Oscar's  face  as  he 
stood  by  Lucilla's  chair.  It  did  me  good ;  it  strung  up  my 
resolution  to  the  right  pitch  ;  it  made  me  feel  myself  a  match, 
and  more  than  a  match,  for  Nugent  Dubourg. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  behaved  in  a  very  odd  manner  when  we  met 
in  the  village,"  lie  said.  "The  fact  is,  I  am  not  at  all  well. 
I  have  been  in  a  strange  feverish  state  lately.  I  don't  think 
the  air  of  this  place  suits  me."  There  he  stopped,  keeping 
his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  mine,  trying  to  read  my  mind  in 
my  face. 

"  I  am  not  surprised  to  hear  you  say  that,"  I  answered. 
"I  have  noticed  that  you  have  not  been  looking  well  lately." 

My  tone  and  manner  (otherwise  perfectly  composed)  ex- 
pressed polite  sympathy,  and  nothing  more.  I  saw  I  puzzled 
him.  He  tried  again. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  say  or  do  any  thing  rude?"  he  went  on. 

"  Oh  no !" 

"  I  was  excited — painfully  excited.  You  are  too  kind  to 
admit  it.  I  am  sure  I  owe  you  my  apologies  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  !  You  are  certainly  excited,  as  you  say.  But 
we  are  all  in  the  same  state  to-day.  The  occasion,  Mr.  Nu- 
gent, is  your  sufficient  apology." 

Not  the  slightest  sign  in  my  face  of  any  sort  of  suspicion 
of  him  rewarded  the  close  and  continued  scrutiny  with  which 
he  regarded  me.  I  saw  in  his  perplexed  expression  the  cer- 
tain assurance  that  I  was  beating  him  at  his  own  weapons. 
He  made  a  last  effort  to  entrap  me  into  revealing  that  I  sus- 
pected his  secret — he  attempted,  by  irritating  my  quick  tem- 
per, to  take  me  by  surprise. 

"You  are,  no  doubt,  astonished  at  seeing  me  here,"  he  re- 
sumed. "  I  have  not  forgotten  that  I  promised  to  remain  at 
Browndown  instead  of  coming  to  the  rectory.  Don't  be  an- 
gry with  me.  I  am  under  medical  orders  which  forbid  me 
to  keep  my  promise." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  I  said,  just  as  coolly  as  ever. 

"I  will  explain  myself,"  he  rejoined.      "You  remember 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  267 

that  we  long  since  took  Grosse  into  our  confidence  on  the 
subject  of  Oscar's  position  toward  Lucilla?" 

"I  am  not  likely  to  have  forgotten  it,"  I  answered,  "con- 
sidering that  it  was  I  who  first  warned  your  brother  that 
He  IT  Grosse  might  do  terrible  mischief  by  innocently  letting 
out  the  truth." 

"  Do  you  recollect  how  he  took  the  warning  when  we  gave 
it  to  him  ?" 

"Perfectly.  He  promised  to  be  careful.  But,  at  the  same 
time,  he  gruffly  forbade  us  to  involve  him  in  any  more  of  our 
family  troubles.  He  said  he  was  determined  to  preserve  his 
professional  freedom  of  action,  without  being  hampered  by 
domestic  difficulties  which  might  concern  ?/s,  but  which  did 
not  concern  him.  Is  my  memory  accurate  enough  to  satisfy 
you  ?" 

"Your  memory  is  wonderful.  You  will  now  understand 
me  when  I  tell  you  that  Grosse  asserts  his  professional  free- 
dom of  action  on  this  occasion.  I  had  it  from  his  own  lips 
on  our  way  here.  He  considers  it  very  important  that  Lu- 
cilla should  not  be  frightened  at  the  moment  when  she  tries 
her  sight.  Oscar's  face  is  sure  to  startle  her,  if  it  is  the  first 
face  she  sees.  Grosse  has  accordingly  requested  mo  to  be 
present  (as  the  only  other  young  man  in  the  room),  and  to 
place  myself  so  that  I  shall  be  the  first  person  who  attracts 
her  notice.  Ask  him  yourself,  Madame  Pratolungo,  if  you 
don't  believe  me." 

"  Of  course  I  believe  you  !"  I  answered.  "  It  is  useless  to 
dispute  the  surgeon's  orders  at  such  a  time  as  this." 

With  that  I  left  him,  showing  just  as  much  annoyance  as 
an  unsuspecting  woman,  in  my  position,  might  have  natural- 
ly betrayed,  and  no  more.  Knowing,  as  I  did,  what  was  go- 
ing on  under  the  surface,  I  understood  only  too  plainly  what 
had  happened.  Nugent  had  caught  at  the  opportunity  which 
the  surgeon  had  innocently  offered  to  him  as  a  means  of  mis- 
leading Lucilla  at  the  moment,  and  (possibly)  of  taking  some 
base  advantage  of  her  afterward.  I  trembled  inwardly  with 
rage  and  fear  as  I  turned  my  back  on  him.  Our  one  chance 
Avas  to  make  sure  of  his  absence,  at  the  critical  moment;  and 
cudgel  my  brains  as  I  might,  how  to  reach  that  end  success- 
fully was  more  than  I  could  see. 

When  I  returned  to  the  other  persons  in  the  room,  Oscar 


268  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

and  Lucilla  were  still  occupying  the  same  positions.  Mr. 
Finch  had  presented  himself  (at  full  length)  to  HerrGrosse. 
And  Jicks  was  established  on  a  stool  in  a  comer,  devouring 

'  O 

a  rampant  horse,  carved  in  a  bilious-yellow  German  ginger- 
bread, with  a  voracious  relish  wonderful  and  terrible  to  see. 

"Ah,  my  goot  Madame  Pratolungo !"  said  He  IT  Grosse, 
stopping  on  his  way  to  Lucilla  to  shake  hands  with  me. 
"Have  you  made  anudder  lofely  Mayonnaise?  I  have  come 
on  purpose  with  an  empty-stomachs,  and  a  wolf's-appetite  in 
fine  order.  Look  at  that  little  Imps,"  he  went  on,  pointing 
to  Jicks.  "Ach  Gott !  I  believe  I  am  in  lofe  with  her.  I 
have  sent  all  the  ways  to  Germany  for  gingerbreads  for  Jick. 
Aha,  you  Jick  !  does  it  stick  in  your  tooths  !  Is  it  nice-clam- 
my-sweet?"  He  glared  benevolently  at  the  child  through 
his  spectacles,  and  tucked  my  hand  sentimentally  in  the 
breast  of  his  waistcoat.  "Promise  me  a  child  like  adorable 
Jick,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "I  will  marry  the  first  wife  you 
bring  me — nice  womans,  nasty  womans,  I  don't  care  which. 
Soh !  there  is  my  domestic  sentiments  laid  bare  before  you. 
Enough  of  that.  Now  for  my  pretty  Feench  !  Come-begin- 
begin !" 

He  crossed  the  room  to  Lucilla,  and  called  to  Nugent  to 

'  O 

follow  him. 

"  Open  the  shutters,"  he  said.  "  Light-light-light,  and  plen- 
ty of  him,  for  my  lofely  Feench  !" 

Nugent  opened  the  shutters,  beginning  with  the  lower 
window,  and  ending  with  the  window  at  which  Lucilla  was 
sitting.  Acting  on  this  plan,  he  had  only  to  wait  where  he 
was,  to  place  himself  close  by  her — to  be  the  first  object  she 
saw.  He  did  it.  The  villain  did  it.  I  stepped  forward,  de- 
termined to  interfere  —  and  stopped,  not  knowing  what  to 
say  or  do.  I  could  have  beaten  my  own  stupid  brains  out 
against  the  wall.  There  stood  Nugent  right  before  her,  as 
the  surgeon  turned  his  patient  toward  the  window.  And  not 
the  ghost  of  an  idea  came  to  me  ! 

The  German  stretched  out  his  hairy  hands,  and  took  hold 
of  the  knot  of  the  bandage  to  undo  it. 

Lucilla  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

He  IT  Grosse  hesitated — looked  at  her — let  go  of  the  band- 
age— and,  lifting  one  of  her  hands,  laid  his  fingers  on  her 
pulse. 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  271 

In  the  moment  of  silence  that  followed  I  had  one  of  my 
inspirations.  The  missing  idea  turned  up  in  my  brains  at 
last. 

"Sohi'r  cried  Grosse,  dropping  her  hand  with  a  sudden 
outbreak  of  annoyance  and  surprise.  "  Who  has  been  fright- 
ening my  pretty  Feench  ?  Why  these  cold  trembles?  these 
sinking  pulses?  Some  of  you  tell  me — what  does  it  mean?" 

Here  was  my  opportunity !  I  tried  my  idea  on  the 
spot. 

l'It  means,"  I  said,  "  that  there  are  too  many  people  in  this 
room.  We  confuse  her  and  frighten  her.  Take  her  into  her 
bedroom,  Herr  Grosse ;  and  only  let  the  rest  of  us  in  when 
you  think  right — one  at  a  time." 

Our  excellent  surgeon  instantly  seized  on  my  idea,  and 
made  H  his  own. 

"You  are  a  phenix  among  womens,"  he  said,  paternally 
patting  me  on  the  shoulder.  "  Which  is  most  perfectest, 
your  advice  or  your  Mayonnaise,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know." 
He  turned  to  Lucilla,  and  raised  her  gently  from  her  chair. 
"  Come  into  your  own  rooms  with  me,  my  poor  little  Feench. 
I  shall  see  if  I  dare  take  off  your  bandages  to-day  !" 

Lucilla  clasped  her  hands  entreatingly. 

"  You  promised  !"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Herr  Grosse,  you  prom- 
ised to  let  me  use  my  eyes  to-day  !" 

"  Answer  me  this  !"  retorted  the  German.  "  Did  I  know, 
when  I  promised,  that  I  should  find  you  all  shaky-pale,  and 
white  as  my  shirts  when  he  cornes  back  from  the  wash  ?" 

"I  am  quite  myself  again,"  she  pleaded,  faintly.  "I  am 
quite  fit  to  have  the  bandage  taken  off." 

"What!  you  know  better  than  I  do?  Which  of  us  is 
surgeon-optic — you  or  me  ?  No  more  of  this.  Come  under 
my  arms !  Come  into  the  odder  rooms  !"  • 

lie  put  her  arm  in  his,  and  walked  with  her  to  the  door. 
There  her  variable  humor  suddenly  changed.  She  rallied 
on  the  instant.  Her  face  flushed ;  her  courage  came  back. 
To  my  horror,  she  snatched  her  arm  away  from  the  surgeon, 
and  refused  to  leave  the  room. 

"No!"  she  said.  "I  am  quite  composed  again;  I  claim 
your  promise.  Examine  me  here.  I  must  and  will  have  my 
first  look  at  Oscar  in  this  room." 

(I  was  afraid — literally  afraid — to  turn  my  eyes  Oscar's 


272  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

way.  I  glanced  at  Nugent  instead.  There  was  a  devilish 
smile  on  his  face  that  it  drove  me  nearly  mad  to  see.) 

"You  must  and  weel?"  repeated  Grosse.  "Now  mind!" 
He  took  out  his  watch.  "I  give  you  one  little  minutes  to 
think  in.  If  you  don't  come  with  me  in  that  time,  you  shall 
find  it  is  I  who  must  and  weel.  Now  !" 

"  Why  do  you  object  to  go  into  your  room  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Because  I  want  every  body  to  see  me,"  she  answered. 
"How  many  of  you  are  there  here?" 

"  There  are  five  of  us.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Finch,  Mr.  Nugent 
Dubourg,  Oscar,  and  myself." 

"  I  wish  there  were  five  hundred  of  you,  instead  of  five !" 
she  burst  out. 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  you  would  see  me  pick  out  Oscar  from  all  the 
rest  the  instant  the  bandage  was  off  my  eyes  !" 

Still  holding  to  her  own  fatal  conviction  that  the  image 
in  her  mind  of  Oscar  was  the  right  one !  For  the  second 
time,  though  I  felt  the  longing  in  me  to  look  at  him,  I  shrank 
from  doing  it. 

Herr  Grosse  put  his  watch  back  in  his  pocket. 

"  The  minutes  is  past,"  he  said.  "  Will  you  come  into  the 
odder  rooms?  Will  you  understand  that  I  can  not  properly 
examine  you  before  all  these  peoples?  Say,  my  lofely  Feench 
—Yes?  or  No?" 

"  No  !"  she  cried,  obstinately,  with  a  childish  stamp  of  her 
foot.  "I  insist  on  showing  every  body  that  I  can  pick  out 
Oscar  the  moment  I  open  my  eyes." 

Herr  Grosse  buttoned  his  coat,  set  his  owlish  spectacles 
firmly  on  his  nose,  and  took  up  his  hat.  "  Goot-morning," 
he  said.  "I  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  you  or  your  eyes. 
Cure  yourself,  you  little-spitfire-Feench.  I  am  going  back 
to  London." 

He  opened  the  door.  Even  Lucilla  was  obliged  to  yield 
when  the  surgeon  in  attendance  on  her  threatened  to  throw 
up  the  case. 

"You  brute!"  she  said,  indignantly — and  took  his  arm 
again. 

Grosse  indulged  himself  in  his  diabolical  grin.  "When  you 
are  able  to  use  your  eyes,  my  lof'e,  you  will  see  that  I  am  not 
such  a  brutes  as  I  look."  With  those  words  he  took  her  out. 


POOR   MISS  FINCH.  273 

We  were  left  in  the  sitting-room,  to  wait  until  the  surgeon 
had  decided  whether  he  would  or  would  not  let  Lucilla  try 
her  sight  on  that  day. 

While  the  others  were,  in  their  various  ways,  all  suffering 
the  same  uneasy  sense  of  expectation,  I  was  as  quiet  in  my 
mind  as  the  baby  now-sleeping  in  his  mother's  arms.  Thanks 
to  Grosse's  resolution  to  act  on  the  hint  that  I  had  given  to 
him,  I  had  now  made  it  impossible — even  if  the  bandage  was 
removed  on  that  day — for  Nugent  to  catch  Lucilla's  first  look 
when  she  opened  her  eyes.  Her  betrothed  husband  might 
certainly,  on  such  a  special  occasion  as  this,  be  admitted  into 
her  bed-chamber,  in  company  with  her  father  or  with  me. 
But  the  commonest  sense  of  propriety  would  dictate  the  clos- 
ing of  the  door  on  Nugent.  In  the  sitting-room  he  must 
wait  (if  he  still  persisted  in  remaining  at  the  rectory)  until 
she  was  allowed  to  join  him  there.  I  privately  resolved,  hav- 
ing the  control  of  the  matter  now  in  my  own  hands,  that  this 
should  not  happen  until  Lucilla  knew  which  of  the  twins  was 
Nugent  and  which  was  Oscar.  A  delicious  inward  glow  of 
triumph  diffused  itself  all  through  me.  I  resisted  the  strong 
temptation  that  I  felt  to  discover  how  Nugent  bore  his  de- 
feat. If  I  had  yielded  to  it,  he  would  have  seen  in  my  face 
that  I  gloried  in  having  outwitted  him.  I  sat  down,  the 
picture  of  innocence,  in  the  nearest  chair,  and  crossed  my 
hands  on  my  lap,  a  composed  and  lady-like  person,  edifying 
to  see. 

The  slow  minutes  followed  each  other — and  still  we  wait- 
ed the  event  in  silence.  Even  Mr.  Finch's  tongue  was,  on 
this  solitary  occasion,  a  tongue  incapable  of  pronouncing  a 
single  word.  He  sat  by  his  wife  at  one  end  of  the  room. 
Oscar  and  I  were  at  the  other.  Nugent  stood  by  himself  at 
one  of  the  windows,  deep  in  his  own  thoughts,  plotting  how 
he  could  pay  me  out. 

Oscar  was  the  first  of  the  party  who  broke  the  silence. 
After  looking  all  round  the  room,  he  suddenly  addressed 
himself  to  me. 

"Madame  Pratolungo,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  has  become 
of  Jicks?" 

I  had  completely  forgotten  the  child.  I  too  looked  round 
the  room,  and  satisfied  myself  that  she  had  really  disappear- 
ed. Mrs.  Finch,  observing  our  astonishment,  timidlv  enlitiht- 

M  -2 


274  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

ened  us.  The  maternal  eye  had  seen  Jicks  slip  out  of  the 
room  at  He  IT  Grosse's  heels.  The  child's  object  was  plain 
enough.  While  there  was  any  probability  of  the  presence 
of  more  gingerbread  in  the  surgeon's  pocket,  the  wandering 
Arab  of  the  family  (as  stealthy  and  as  quick  as  a  cat)  was 
certain  to  keep  within  reach  of  her  friend.  Nobody  who 
knew  her  could  doubt  that  she  had  slipped  into  Lucilla's 
bed-chamber,  under  cover  of  Herr  Grosse's  ample  coat  tails. 

We  had  just  accounted  in  this  way  for  the  mysterious  ab- 
sence of  Jicks,  when  we  heard  the  bed-chamber  door  opened, 
and  the  surgeon's  voice  calling  for  Zillah.  In  a  minute  more 
the  nurse  appeared,  the  bearer  of  a  message  from  the  next 
room. 

We  all  surrounded  her,  with  one  and  the  same  question  to 
ask.  What  had  Herr  Grosse  decided  to  do  ?  The  answer 
informed  us  that  he  had  decided  on  forbidding  Lucilla  to  try 
her  eyes  that  day. 

"Is  she  very  much  disappointed?"  Oscar  inquired,  anx- 
iously. 

"  I  can  hardly  say,  Sir.  She  isn't  like  herself.  I  never 
knew  Miss  Lucilla  so  quiet  when  she  was  crossed  in  her  wish- 
es before.  When  the  doctor  called  me  into  the  room  she 
said,  'Go  in,  Zillah,  and  tell  them.'  Those  words,  Sir,  and 
no  more." 

"  Did  she  express  no  wish  to  see  me  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  No,  ma'am.  I  took  the  liberty  of  asking  her  if  she  wished 
to  see  you.  Miss  Lucilla  shook  her  head,  and  sat  herself 
down  on  the  sofa,  and  made  the  doctor  sit  by  her.  '  Leave 
us  by  ourselves.'  Those  were  the  last  words  she  said  to  me 
before  I  came  in  here." 

Reverend  Finch  put  the  next  question.  The  Pope  of  Dim- 
church  was  himself  again  :  the  man  of  many  words  saw  his 
chance  of  speaking  once  more. 

"  Good  woman,"  said  the  rector,  with  ponderous  politeness, 
"step  this  way.  I  wish  to  address  an  inquiry  to  you.  Did 
Miss  Finch  make  any  remark,  in  your  hearing,  indicating  a 
desire  to  be  comforted  by  My  Ministrations — as  one  bearing 
the  double  relation  toward  her  of  pastor  and  parent  ?" 

"I  didn't  hear  Miss  Lucilla  say  any  thing  to  that  effect, 
Sir." 

Mr  Finch   waved  his   hand,  with  a  look   of  disgust,  in- 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  275 

timating  that  Zillah's  audience  was  over.  Nugent,  upon 
that,  came  forward,  and  stopped  her  as  she  was  leaving  the 
room. 

"  Have  you  nothing  more  to  tell  us?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  Sir." 

"  Why  don't  they  come  back  here  ?  What  are  they  doing 
in  the  other  room  ?" 

"They  were  doing  what  I  mentioned  just  now,  Sir — they 
were  sitting  side  by  side  on  the  sofa.  Miss  Lucilla  was  talk- 
ing, and  the  doctor  was  listening  to  her.  And  Jicks,"  added 
Zillah,  addressing  herself  confidentially  to  me,  "was  behind 
them,  picking  the  doctor's  pocket." 

Oscar  put  in  a  word  there — by  no  means  in  his  most  gra- 
cious manner. 

"  What  was  Miss  Lucilla  saying  to  the  surgeon  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Sir." 

"  You  don't  know  !" 

"I  couldn't  hear,  Sir.  Miss  Lucilla  was  speaking  to  him 
in  a  whisper." 

After  that  there  was  no  more  to  be  said.  Zillah,  dis- 
turbed over  her  domestic  occupations,  and  eager  to  get  back 
to  her  kitchen,  seized  the  first  chance  of  leaving  the  room; 
going  out  in  such  a  hurry  that  she  forgot  to  close  the  door 
after  her.  We  all  looked  at  each  other.  To  what  conclusion 
did  the  nurse's  strange  answers  point?  It  was  plainly  im- 
possible for  Oscar  (no  matter  how  quick  his  temper  might 
be)  to  feel  jealous  of  a  man  of  Grosse's  age  and  personal  ap- 
pearance. Still,  the  prolonged  interview  between  patient 
and  surgeon — after  the  decision  had  been  pronounced,  and 
the  trial  of  the  eyes  definitely  deferred  to  a  future  day — had 
a  strange  appearance,  to  say  the  least  of  it. 

Nugent  returned  to  his  place  at  the  window — puzzled,  sus- 
picions, deep  in  his  own  thoughts.  Reverend  Finch,  swelling 
with  unspoken  words,  rose  portentously  from  his  chair  by  his 
wife's  side.  Had  he  discovered  another  chance  of  inflicting 
his  eloquence  on  us?  It  was  only  too  evident  that  he  had  ! 
He  looked  at  us  with  his  ominous  smile.  He  addressed  us 
in  his  biggest  voice. 

"My  Christian  friends—" 

Nugent,  unassailable  by  eloquence,  persisted  in  looking  out 
of  U>o  window.  Oscar,  insensible  to  every  earthly  consider"- 


276  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

ation  except  the  one  consideration  of  Lucilla,  drew  me  aside 
unceremoniously  out  of  the  rector's  hearing.  Mr.  Finch  re- 
sumed. 

"My  Christian  friends,  I  could  wish  to  say  a  few  appro- 
priate words." 

"  Go  to  Lucilla,"  whispered  Oscar,  taking  me  entreatingly 
by  both  hands.  "  You  needn't  stand  on  ceremony  with  her. 
Do,  do  see  what  is  going  on  in  the  next  room  !" 

Mr. Finch  resumed. 

"  The  occasion  seems  to  call  upon  one  in  my  position  for  a 
little  sustaining  advice  on  Christian  duty — I  would  say,  the 
duty  of  being  cheerful  under  disappointment." 

Oscar  persisted. 

"Do  me  the  greatest  of  all  favors !  Pray  find  out  what  is 
keeping  Lucilla  with  that  man  !" 

Mr.  Finch  cleared  his  throat,  and  lifted  his  right  hand  per- 
suasively, by  way  of  introduction  to  his  next  sentence. 

I  answered  Oscar  in  a  whisper. 

"I  don't  like  intruding  on  them.  Lucilla  told  the  nurse 
they  were  to  be  left  by  themselves." 

Just  as  I  said  the  words  I  became  aware  of  a  sudden  bump 
against  me  from  behind.  I  turned,  and  discovered  Jicks  with 
the  battering-ram  doll  preparing  for  a  second  plunge  at  me. 
She  stopped  when  she  found  that  she  had  attracted  my  at- 
tention ;  and,  taking  hold  of  my  dress,  tried  to  pull  me  out 
of  the  room. 

"  Remove  that  child  !"  cried  the  rector,  exasperated  by  this 
new  interruption. 

The  child  pulled  harder  and  harder  at  my  dress.  Some- 
thing had  apparently  happened  outside  the  sitting-room 
which  had  produced  a  strong  impression  on  her.  Her  little 
round  face  was  flushed ;  her  bright  blue  eyes  were  wide  open 
and  staring.  "  Jicks  wants  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said,  and 
pulled  at  me  impatiently,  harder  than  ever. 

I  stooped  down,  with  the  double  purpose  of  obeying  Mr. 
Finch's  commands  and  of  humoring  the  child's  whim  by  car- 
rying Jicks  out  of  the  room,  when  I  was  startled  by  a  sound 
from  the  bedroom — the  sound,  loud  and  peremptory,  of  Lu- 
cilia's  voice. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  cried.  "I  am  a  woman — I  won't  be 
treated  like  a  child." 


«          POOR    MISS   FINCH.  279 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  followed  by  the  rustling 
sound  of  her  dress  approaching  us  along  the  corridor. 

Grosse's  voice,  unmistakably  angry  and  excited,  became 
audible  at  the  same  time.  "  No  !  Come  back  !  come  back  !" 

The  rustling  sound  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

Nugent  and  Mr. Finch  moved  together  nearer  to  the  door. 
Oscar  caught  me  by  the  arm.  He  and  I  were  on  the  left- 
hand  side  of  the  door;  Nugent  and  the  rector  were  on  the 
right-hand  side.  It  all  happened  with  the  suddenness  of  a 
flash  of  lightning.  My  heart  stood  still.  I  couldn't  speak.  I 
couldn't  move. 

The  half-closed  door  of  the  sitting-room  was  burst  wide 
open,  roughly,  violently,  as  if  a  man,  not  a  woman,  had  been 
on  the  other  side.  (The  rector  drew  back ;  Nugent  remained 
where  he  was.)  Wildly  groping  her  way  with  outstretched 
arms,  as  I  had  never  seen  her  grope  it  in  the  time  of  her 
blindness,  Lucilla  staggered  into  the  room.  Merciful  God  ! 
the  bandage  was  off.  The  life,  the  new  life  of  sight,  was  in 
her  eyes.  It  transfigured  her  face.  It  irradiated  her  beauty 
with  an  awful  and  unearthly  light.  She  saw  !  she  saw ! 

For  an  instant  she  stopped  at  the  door,  swaying  to  and 
fro;  giddy  under  the  broad  stare  of  daylight. 

She  looked  at  the  rector,  then  at  Mrs.  Finch,  who  had  fol- 
lowed her  husband.  She  paused,  bewildered,  and  put  her 
hands  over  her  eyes.  She  slightly  changed  her  position ; 
turned  her  head,  as  if  to  look  at  me  ;  turned  it  back  sharply 
toward  the  right-hand  side  of  the  door  again;  and  threw  up 
her  arms  in  the  air,  with  a  burst  of  hysterical  laughter.  The 
laughter  ended  in  a  scream  of  triumph,  which  rang  through 
the  house.  She  rushed  at  Nugent  Dubourg,  so  blindly  in- 
capable of  measuring  her  distance  that  she  struck  against  him 
violently,  and  nearly  threw  him  down.  "I  know  him!  I 
know  him  !"  she  cried,  and  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck. 
"Oh,  Oscar!  Oscar  I"  She  clasped  him  to  her  with  all  lu-r 
strength,  as  the  name  passed  her  lips,  and  dropped  her  head 
on  his  bosom  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy. 

It  was  done  before  any  of  us  had  recovered  the  use  of  our 
senses.  The  whole  horrible  scene  must  have  begun  and  end- 
ed in  less  than  half  a  minute  of  time.  The  surgeon,  who  had 
run  into  the  room  after  her,  empty-handed,  turned  suddenly 
and  left  it  again  ;  coming  back  with  the  bandage,  left  forgot- 


280  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

ten  in  the  bedroom.  Grosse  was  the  first  among  us  to  re- 
cover his  presence  of  mind.  He  approached  her  in  silence. 

She  heard  him,  before  he  could  take  her  by  surprise  and 
slip  the  bandage  over  her  eyes.  The  moment  when  I  turned, 
horror-struck,  to  look  at  Oscar  was  also  the  moment  when 
she  lifted  her  head  from  Nugent's  bosom  to  look  for  the  sur- 
geon. Her  eyes  followed  the  direction  taken  by  mine.  They 
encountered  Oscar's  face.  She  saw  the  blue-black  hue  of  it  in 
full  light. 

A  cry  of  terror  escaped  her:  she  started  back,  shuddering, 
and  caught  hold  of  Nugent's  arm.  Grosse  motioned  sternly 
to  him  to  turn  her  face  from  the  window,  and  lifted  the 
bandage.  She  clutched  at  it  with  feverish  eagerness  as  he 
held  it  up.  "Put  it  on  again  !"  she  said,  holding  by  Nugent 
with  one  hand,  and  lifting  the  other  to  point  toward  Oscar 
with  a  gesture  of  disgust.  "Put  it  on  again.  I  have  seen 
too  much  already." 

Grosse  fastened  the  bandage  over  her  eyes,  and  waited  a 
little.  She  still  held  Nugent's  arm.  The  sting  of  my  indig- 
nation as  I  saw  it  roused  me  into  doing  something.  I  stepped 
forward  to  part  them.  Grosse  stopped  me.  "  No  !"  he  said. 
"Don't  make  bad  worse."  I  looked  at  Oscar  for  the  second 
time.  There  he  stood,  as  he  had  stood  from  the  first  moment 
when  she  appeared  at  the  door  —  his  eyes  staring  wildly 
straight  before  him;  his  limbs  set  and  fixed.  I  went  to  him 
and  touched  him.  He  seemed  not  to  feel  it.  I  spoke  to  him. 
I  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  a  man  of  stone. 

Herr  Grosse's  voice  drew  my  attention,  for  a  moment,  the 
other  way. 

"  Come !"  he  said,  trying  to  take  Lucilla  back  into  her  own 
room. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  tightened  her  hold  on  Nugent's 
arm. 

'•'•You  take  me,"  she  whispered,  "as  far  as  the  door." 

I  again  attempted  to  stop  it,  and  again  the  German  put 
me  back. 

"  Not  to-day  !"  he  said,  sternly.  With  that  he  made  a  sign 
to  Nugent,  and  placed  himself  on  Lucilla's  other  side.  In  si- 
lence the  two  men  led  her  out  of  the  room.  The  door  closed 
on  them.  It  was  over. 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  281 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY- SIXTH. 

THE    BROTHERS    MEET. 

A  FAINT  sound  of  crying  found  its  way  to  my  ears  from 
the  lower  end  of  the  room,  and  reminded  me  that  the  rector 
and  his  wife  had  been  present  among  us.  Feeble  Mrs.  Finch 
was  lying  back  in  her  chair,  weeping  and  wailing  over  what 
had  happened.  Her  husband,  with  the  baby  in  his  arms,  was 
trying  to  compose  her.  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  offered  my 
help ;  but,  I  own,  poor  Mrs.  Finch's  distress  produced  only  a 
passing  impression  on  me.  My  whole  heart  was  with  anoth- 
er person.  I  forgot  the  rector  and  his  wife,  and  went  back 
to  Oscar. 

This  time  lie  moved — he  lifted  his  head  when  he  saw  me. 
Shall  I  ever  forget  the  silent  misery  in  that  face,  the  dull, 
dreadful  stare  in  those  tearless  eyes  ? 

I  took  his  hand.  I  felt  for  the  poor,  disfigured,  rejected 
man  as  his  mother  might  have  felt  for  him.  I  gave  him  a 
mother's  kiss.  "  Be  comforted,  Oscar,"  I  said.  "  Trust  me 
to  set  this  right." 

He  drew  a  long,  trembling  breath,  and  pressed  my  hand 
gratefully.  I  attempted  to  speak  to  him  again — he  stopped 
me  by  looking  suddenly  toward  the  door. 

"  Is  Nugent  outside  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

I  went  into  the  corridor.  It  was  empty.  I  looked  into 
Lucilla's  room.  She  and  Grosse  and  the  nurse  were  the  only 
persons  in  it.  I  beckoned  to  Zillah  to  come  out  and  speak 
to  me.  I  asked  for  Nugent.  He  had  left  Lucilla  abruptly 
at  the  bedroom  door — he  was  out  of  the  house.  I  inquired 
if  it  was  known  in  what  direction  he  had  gone.  Zillah  had 
seen  him  in  the  field  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  walking  away 
rapidly,  with  his  back  to  the  village,  and  his  face  to  the  hills. 

"Nugent  has  gone,"  I  said,  returning  to  Oscar. 

"  Add  to  your  kindness  to  me,"  he  answered.  "  Let  me  go 
too." 

A  quick  fear  crossed  my  mind  that  he  might  be  bent  on 
following  his  brother. 


282  TOOK    MISS    FINCH. 

"Wait  a  little,"  I  said,  "and  rest  here." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  must  be  by  myself,"  he  said.  After  considering  a  little, 
he  added  a  question.  "Has  Nugent  gone  to  Browndown?" 

"  No.     Nugent  has  been  seen  walking  toward  the  hills." 

He  took  my  hand  again.  "  Be  merciful  to  me,"  he  said. 
"Let  me  go." 

"  Home  ?    To  Browndown  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Let  me  go  with  you." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Forgive  me.  You  shall  hear  from 
me  later  in  the  day." 

No  tears;  no  flaming  up  of  the  quick  temper  that  I  knew 
so  well  I  Nothing  in  his  face,  nothing  in  his  voice,  nothing 
in  his  manner,  but  a  composure  miserable  to  see — the  com- 
posure of  despair. 

"At  least  let  me  accompany  you  to  the  gate,"  I  said. 

"  God  bless  and  reward  you  !"  he  answered.    "Let  me  go." 

With  a  gentle  hand,  and  yet  with  a  firmness  which  took 
me  completely  by  surprise,  he  separated  himself  from  me,  and 
went  out. 

I  could  stand  no  longer — I  dropped  trembling  into  a  chair. 
The  conviction  forced  itself  on  me  that  there  were  worse 
complications,  direr  misfortunes,  still  to  come.  I  was  almost 
beside  myself.  I  broke  out  vehemently  with  wild  words 
spoken  in  my  own  language.  Mrs.  Finch  recalled  me  to  my 
senses.  I  saw  her  as  in  a  dream,  drying  her  tears,  and  look- 
ing at  me  in  alarm.  The  rector  approached,  with  profuse 
expressions  of  sympathy  and  offers  of  assistance.  I  wanted 
Tio  comforting.  I  had  served  a  hard  apprenticeship  to  life; 
I  had  been  well  seasoned  to  trouble.  "Thank  you,  Sir,"  I 
said.  "Look  to  Mrs.  Finch."  There  was  more  air  in  the 
corridor.  I  went  out  again,  to  walk  about,  and  get  the  bet- 
ter of  it  there. 

A  small  object  attracted  my  attention,  crouched  up  on  one 
of  the  window-seats.  The  small  object  was  Jicks. 

I  suppose  the  child's  instinct  must  have  told  her  that  some- 
thing had  gone  wrong.  She  looked  furtively  sideways  at  me 
round  her  doll:  she  had  grave  doubts  of  my  intentions  to- 
ward her.  "Arc  you  going  to  whack  Jicks?"  asked  the  cu- 
rious little  creature,  shrinking  into  her  corner.  I  sat  down 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  283 

by  her,  and  soon  recovered  my  place  in  her  confidence.  She 
began  to  chatter  again  as  fust  as  usual.  I  listened  to  her  as 
I  could  have  listened  to  no  grown-up  person  at  that  moment. 
In  some  mysterious  way  that  I  can  not  explain  the  child  com- 
forted me.  Little  by  little  I  learned  what  she  had  wanted 
with  me  when  she  had  attempted  to  drag  me  out  of  the  room. 
She  had  seen  all  that  had  passed  in  the  bed-chamber;  and 
she  had  run  out  to  take  me  back  with  her,  and  show  me  the 
wonderful  sight  ofLucilla  with  the  bandage  off' her  eyes.  If 
I  had  been  wise  enough  to  listen  to  Jicks,  I  might  have  pre- 
vented the  catastrophe  that  had  happened.  I  might  have 
met  Lucilla  in  the  corridor,  and  have  forced  her  back  into 
her  own  room  and  turned  the  key  on  her. 

It  was  too  late  now  to  regret  what  had  happened.  "Jicks 
has  been  good,"  I  said,  patting  my  little  friend  on  the  head, 
with  a  heavy  heart.  The  child  listened,  considered  with  her- 
self gravely,  gO"t  off  the  window-seat,  and  claimed  her  reward 
for  being  good,  with  that  excellent  brevity  of  speech  which 
so  eminently  distinguished  her:  "Jicks  will  go  out." 

With  those  words,  she  shouldered  her  doll  and  walked  off. 
The  last  I  saw  of  her  she  was  descending  the  stairs,  as  a  work- 
man descends  a  ladder,  on  her  way  to  the  garden — and  from 
the  garden  (the  first  time  the  gate  was  opened)  to  the  hills. 
If  I  could  have  gone  out  with  her  light  heart,  I  would  have 
joined  Jicks. 

I  had  hardly  lost  sight  of  the  child  before  the  door  of  Ln- 
cilla's  room  opened,  and  Hcrr  Grosse  appeared  in  the  corridor. 

"Soh!"  he  muttered,  with  a  gesture  of  relief,  "the  very 
womans  I  was  looking  for.  A  nice  mess-fix  we  are  in  now! 
I  must  stop  with  Feench.  (I  shall  end  in  hating  Feench  !) 
Can  you  put  me  into  a  beds  for  the  night  ?" 

I  assured  him  that  he  could  easily  sleep  at  the  rectory.  In 
answer  to  my  inquiries  after  his  patient,  he  gravely  acknowl- 
edged that  lie  was  anxious  about  Lucilln.  The  varying  and 
violent  emotions  which  had  shaken  her  (acting  through  her 
nervous  system)  might  produce  results  which  would  imperil 
the  recovery  of  her  sight.  Absolute  repose  was  not  simply 
necessary — it  was  now  the  only  chance  for  her.  For  the  next 
four-and-twenty  hours  he  must  keep  watch  over  her  eyes. 
At  the  end  of  that,  time — no  earlier — lie  might  be  able  to  say 
whether  the  mischief  done  would  be  fatal  to  her  sight  or  not. 


'284  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

I  asked  how  she  had  contrived  to  get  her  bandage  off,  and 
to  make  her  fatal  entrance  into  the  sitting-room. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "There  are  times,"  he  said, 
cynically, "  when  every  womans  is  a  hussy,  and  every  mans 
is  a  fool.  This  was  one  of  the  times." 

It  appeared,  on  further  explanation,  that  my  poor  Lucilla 
had  pleaded  so  earnestly  (after  the  nurse  had  left  the  room) 
to  be  allowed  to  try  her  eyes,  and  had  shown  such  ungov- 
ernable disappointment  when  he  persisted  in  saying  No,  that 
he  had  yielded — not  so  much  to  her  entreaties  as  to  his  own 
conviction  that  it  would  be  less  dangerous  to  humor  her  than 
to  thwart  her,  with  such  a  sensitive  and  irritable  tempera- 
ment as  hers.  He  had  first  bargained,  however,  on  his  side, 
that  she  should  remain  in  the  bed-chamber,  and  be  content, 
for  that  time,  with  using  her  sight  on  the  objects  round  her 
in  the  room.  She  had  promised  all  that  he  asked — and  he 
had  been  foolish  enough  to  trust  to  her  promise.  The  band- 
age once  off,  she  had  instantly  set  every  consideration  at  de- 
fiance, had  torn  herself  out  of  his  hands  like  a  mad  creature, 
and  had  rushed  into  the  sitting-room  before  he  could  stop 
her.  The  rest  had  followed  as  a  matter  of  course.  Feeble 
as  it  was  at  the  first  trial  of  it,  her  sense  of  sight  was  suffi- 
ciently restored  to  enable  her  to  distinguish  objects  dimly. 
Of  the  three  persons  wrho  had  offered  themselves  to  view  on 
the  right-hand  side  of  the  door,  one  (Mrs.  Finch)  was  a  wom- 
an; another  (Mr.  Finch)  was  a  short,  gray -headed,  elderly 
man ;  the  third  (Nugent),  in  his  height — which  she  could  see 
— and  in  the  color  of  his  hair — which  she  could  see — was  the 
only  one  of  the  three  who  could  possibly  represent  Oscar. 
The  catastrophe  that  followed  was  (as  things  were)  inevi- 
table. Now  that  the  harm  was  done,  the  one  alternative  left 
was  to  check  the  mischief  at  the  point  which  it  had  already 
reached.  Not  the  slightest  hint  at  the  terrible  mistake  that 
she  had  made  must  be  suffered  to  reach  her  ears.  If  we  any 
of  us  said  one  word  about  it,  before  he  authorized  us  to  do 
so,  he  would  refuse  to  answer  for  the  consequences,  and  would 
then  and  there  throw  up  the  case. 

So,  in  his  broken  English,  Herr  Grosse  explained  what  had 
happened,  and  issued  his  directions  for  our  future  conduct. 

"  No  person  is  to  go  in  to  her,"  he  said,  in  conclusion,"  but 
you  and  goot  Mrs.  Zillahs.  You  two  watch  her,  turn-about- 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  285 

turn-about.  In  a  whiles  she  will  slc<  j>.  For  me,  I  go  to 
smoke  my  tobaccos  in  the  garden.  Hear  this,  Madame  Pra- 
tolongo.  When  Gott  made  the  womens,  he  was  sorry  after- 
ward for  the  poor  mens — and  he  made  tobaccos  to  comfort 
them." 

Favoring  me  with  this  peculiar  view  of  the  scheme  of  cre- 
ation, Ilerr  Grosse  shook  his  shock  head,  and  waddled  away 
to  the  garden. 

I  softly  opened  the  bedroom  door  and  looked  in — disap- 
pearing just  in  time  to  escape  the  rector  and  Mrs.  Finch  re- 
turning to  their  own  side  of  the  house. 

Lucilla  was  lying  on  the  sofa.  She  asked  who  it  was  in  a 
drowsy  voice — she  was  happily  just  sinking  into  slumber. 
Zillah  occupied  a  chair  near  her.  I  was  not  wanted  for  the 
moment — and  I  was  glad,  for  the  first  time  in  my  experience 
at  Dimchurch,  to  get  out  of  the  room  again.  By  some  con- 
tradiction in  my  character,  which  I  am  not  able  to  explain, 
there  was  a  certain  hostile  influence  in  the  sympathy  that  I 
felt  for  Oscar,  which  estranged  me,  for  the  moment,  from  Lu- 
cilla. It  was  not  her  fault — and  yet  (I  am  ashamed  to  own 
it)  I  almost  felt  angry  with  her  for  reposing  so  comfortably, 
when  I  thought  of  the  poor  fellow,  without  a  creature  to  say 
a  kind  word  to  him,  alone  at  Browndown. 

Out  again  in  the  corridor  the  question  faced  me:  What 
was  I  to  do  next? 

The  loneliness  of  the  house  was  insupportable;  my  anxiety 
about  Oscar  grew  more  than  I  could  endure.  I  put  on  my 
hat,  and  went  out. 

Having  no  desire  to  interfere  with  Ilerr  Grosse's  enjoyment/ 
of  his  pipe,  I  made  my  way  through  the  garden  as  quickly  as 
possible,  and  found  myself  in  the  village  again.  My  uneasi- 
ness on  the  subject  of  Oscar  \vas  matched  by  my  angry  de- 
sire to  know  what  Nugent  would  do.  Now  that  lie  had 
worked  the  very  mischief  which  his  brother  had  foreseen  to 
be  possible — the  very  mischief  which  it  had  been  Oscar's  one 
object  to  prevent  in  asking  him  to  leave  Dimchurch — would 
he  take  his  departure?  would  he  rid  us,  at  once  and  forever, 
of  the  sight  of  him?  The  bare  idea  of  the  other  alternative 
— I  mean,  of  his  remaining  in  the  place — shook  me  with  such 
an  unutterable  dread  of  what  might  happen  next  that  my 
feet  refused  to  support  me.  I  was  obliged,  just  beyond  the 


286  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

village,  to  sit  down  by  the  road-side,  and  wait  till  my  giddy 
head  steadied  itself  before  I  attempted  to  move  again. 

After  a  minute  or  two  I  heard  footsteps  coming  along  the 
road.  My  heart  gave  one  great  leap  in  me.  I  thought  it 
was  Nugent. 

A  moment  more  brought  the  person  in  view.  It  was  only 
Mr.  Gootheridge,  of  the  village  inn,  on  his  way  home.  He 
stopped  and  took  off  his  hat. 

"Tired,  ma'am?"  he  said. 

The  uppermost  idea  in  my  mind  found  its  way  somehow, 
ill  as  I  was,  to  expression  on  my  lips — in  the  form  of  a  ques- 
tion addressed  to  the  landlord. 

"Do  you  happen  to  have  seen  any  thing  of  Mr.  Nugent  Du- 
bourg?"  I  asked. 

"I  saw  him  not  five  minutes  since,  ma'am." 

"Where?" 

"Going  into  Browndown." 

I  started  up  as  if  I  had  been  struck  or  shot.  Worthy  Mr. 
Gootheridge  stared.  I  wished  him  good-day,  and  went  on  as 
fast  as  my  feet  would  take  me,  straight  to  Browndown.  Had 
the  brothers  met  in  the  house?  I  turned  cold  at  the  bare 
thought  of  it — but  I  still  kept  on.  There  was  an  obstinate 
resolution  in  me  to  part  them,  which  served  me  in  place  of 
courage.  Account  for  it  as  you  may,  I  was  bold  and  fright- 
ened both  at  the  same  time.  At  one  moment  I  was  fool 
enough  to  say  to  myself,  "They  will  kill  me."  At  anoth- 
er, just  as  foolishly,  I  found  comfort  in  the  opposite  view. 
"  Bah  !  They  are  gentlemen ;  they  can't  hurt  a  woman  !" 

The  servant  was  standing  idling  at  the  front-door  when  I 
arrived  in  sight  of  the  house.  This,  in  itself,  was  unusual. 
He  was  a  hard-working,  well-trained  man.  On  other  occa- 
sions nobody  had  ever  seen  him  out  of  his  proper  place.  He 
advanced  a  few  steps  to  meet  me.  I  looked  at  him  carefully. 
Not  the  slightest  appearance  of  disturbance  was  visible  in 
his  face. 

"  Is  Mr.  Oscar  at  home  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am.  Mr.  Oscar  is  at  home — but 
you  can't  see  him.  He  and  Mr.  Nugent  are  together." 

I  rested  my  hand  on  the  low  wall  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
made  a  desperate  effort  to  put  a  calm  face  on  it. 

"Surely  Mr.  Oscar  will  see  me?"  I  said. 


POOU    MISS    FINCH.  287 

"  I  have  Mr.  Oscar's  orders,  ma'am,  to  wait  at  the  door,  and 
tell  every  body  who  comes  to  the  house  (without  exception) 
that  he  is  engaged." 

The  house  door  was  half  open.  I  listened  intently  while 
the  man  was  speaking.  If  they  ha<l  been  at  high  words  to- 
gether, I  must  have  heard  them,  in  the  silence  of  the  lonely 
hills  all  round  us.  I  heard  nothing. 

It  was  strange,  it  was  inconceivable.  At  the  same  time  it 
relieved  me.  There  they  were  together,  and  no  harm  had 
come  of  it  so  far. 

I  left  my  card,  and  walked  on  a  little  past  the  corner  of  the 
house  wall.  As  soon  as  I  was  out  of  the  servant's  sight,  I 
turned  back  to  the  side  of  the  building,  and  ventured  as  near 
as  I  durst  to  the  window  of  the  sitting-room.  Their  voices 
reached  me,  but  not  their  words.  On  both  sides  the  tones 
were  low  and  confidential.  Not  a  note  of  anger  in  either 
voice — listen  for  it  as  I  might !  I  left  the  house  again,  breath- 
less with  amazement,  and  (so  rapidly  does  a  woman  shift 
from  one  emotion  to  another)  burning  with  curiosity. 

After  half  an  hour  of  aimless  wandering  in  the  valley,  I  re- 
turned to  the  rectory. 

Lucilla  was  still  sleeping.  I  took  Zillah's  place,  and  sent 
her  into  the  kitchen.  The  landlady  of  the  inn  was  there  to 
help  us  with  the  dinner.  But. she  was  hardly  equal,  single- 
handed,  to  the  superintendence  of  such  dishes  as  we  had  to 
set  before  Herr  Grosse.  It  was  high  time  I  relieved  Zillah, 
if  we  were  to  pass  successfully  through  the  ordeal  of  the 
great  surgeon's  criticism  as  reviewer  of  all  the  sauces. 

An  hour  more  passed  before  Lucilla  woke.  I  sent  a  mes- 
senger to  Grosse,  who  appeared  enveloped  in  a  halo  of  to- 
bacco, examined  the  patient's  eyes,  felt  her  pulse,  ordered 
her  wine  and  jelly,  filled  his  monstrous  pipe,  and  gruffly  re- 
turned to  his  promenade  in  the  garden. 

The  day  wore  on.  Mr.  Finch  came  >  make  inquiries,  and 
then  went  back  to  his  wife — whom  he  described  as  "  hysteric- 
ally irresponsible,"  and  in  imminent  need  of  another  warm 
bath.  lie  declined,  in  his  most  pathetic  manner,  to  meet  the 
German  at  dinner.  "After  what  I  have  suffered,  after  what 
I  have  seen,  these  banquetings — I  would  say,  these  ticklings 
of  the  palate — are  not  to  my  taste.  You  mean  well,  Ma- 
dame Pratolungo.  (Good  creature!)  But  I  am  not  in  heart 


2SS  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

for  feasting.  Simple  fare,  by  ray  wife's  couch  ;  a  few  consol- 
ing words,  in  the  character  of  pastor  and  husband,  when  the 
infant  is  quiet.  So  my  day  is  laid  out.  I  wish  you  well.  I 
don't  object  to  your  little  dinner.  Good-day  !  good-day !" 

A  second  examination  of  Lucilla's  eyes  brought  us  to  the 
dinner  hour. 

At  the  sight  of  the  table-cloth  Herr  Grosse's  good  humor 
returned.  We  two  dined  together  alone — the  German  send- 
ing in  selections  of  his  own  making  from  the  dishes  to  Lu- 
cilia's  room.  So  far,  he  said,  she  had  escaped  any  serious  in- 
jury. But  he  still  insisted  on  keeping  his  patient  perfectly 
quiet,  and  he  refused  to  answer  for  any  thing  until  the  night 
had  passed.  As  for  me,  Oscar's  continued  silence  weighed 
more  and  more  heavily  on  my  spirits.  My  past  suspense  in 
the  darkened  room  with  Lucilla  seemed  to  be  a  mere  trifle 
by  comparison  with  the  keener  anxieties  which  I  suffered 
now.  I  saw  Grosse's  eyes  glaring  discontentedly  at  me 
through  his  spectacles.  He  had  good  reason  to  look  at  me 
as  he  did :  I  had  never  before  been  so  stupid  and  so  disagree- 
able in  all  my  life. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  dinner  there  came  news  from  Brown- 
down  at  last.  The  servant  sent  in  a  message  by  Zillah,  beg- 
ging me  to  see  him  for  a  moment  outside  the  sitting-room 
door. 

I  made  my  excuses  to  my  guest,  and  hurried  out. 

The  instant  I  saw  the  servant's  face  my  heart  sank.  Os- 
car's kindness  had  attached  the  man  devotedly  to  his  master. 
I  saw  his  lips  tremble,  and  his  color  come  and  go,  when  I 
looked  at  him. 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  letter,  ma'am." 

He  handed  me  a  letter  addressed  to  me  in  Oscar's  hand- 
writing. 

"  How  is  your  master  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Net  very  well,  ma'am,  when  I  saw  him  last." 

"When  you  saw  him  last?" 

"I  bring  sad  news,  ma'am.  There's  a  breaking  up  at 
Browndown." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Where  is  Mr.  Oscar?" 

"Mr.  Oscar  has  left  Dimchurch." 


POOK   MISS   FINCH.  289 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY- SEVENTH. 

THE    BROTHERS    CHANGE    PLACES. 

I  VAINLY  believed  I  had  prepared  myself  for  any  misfor- 
tune that  could  fall  on  us.  The  man's  last  words  dispelled 
my  delusion.  My  gloomiest  forebodings  had  never  contem- 
plated such  a  disaster  as  had  now  happened.  I  stood  petri- 
fied, thinking  of  Lucilla,  and  looking  helplessly  at  the  servant. 
Try  as  I  might,  I  was  perfectly  incapable  of  speaking  to  him. 

He  felt  no  such  difficulty  on  his  side.  One  of  the  strangest 
peculiarities  in  the  humbler  ranks  of  the  English  people  is 
the  sort  of  solemn  relish  which  they  have  for  talking  of  their 
own  misfortunes.  To  be  the  objects  of  a  calamity  of  any 
kind  seems  to  raise  them  in  their  own  estimations.  With  a 
dreary  enjoyment  of  his  miserable  theme,  the  servant  expa- 
tiated on  his  position  as  a  man  deprived  of  the  best  of  mas- 
ters ;  turned  adrift  again  in  the  world  to  seek  another  serv- 
ice; hopeless  of  ever  again  finding  himself  in  such  a  situa- 
tion as  he  had  lost.  He  roused  me  at  last  into  speaking  to 
him  by  sheer  dint  of  irritating  my  nerves  until  I  could  en- 
dure him  no  longer. 

"Has  Mr.  Oscar  gone  away  alone?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  quite  alone." 

(What  had  become  of  Nugent?  I  was  too  much  interest- 
ed in  Oscar  to  be  able  to  put  the  question  at  that  moment.) 

"When  did  your  master  go?"  I  went  on. 

"Better  than  two  hours  since." 

"Why  didn't  I  hear  of  it  before?" 

"  I  had  Mr.  Oscar's  orders  not  to  tell  you,  ma'am,  till  this 
time  in  the  evening." 

Wretched  as  I  was  already,  my  spirits  sank  lower  still 
when  I  heard  that.  The  order  given  to  the  servant  lookod 
like  a  premeditated  design  not  only  to  leave  Dimchurch,  but 
also  to  keep  us  in  ignorance  of  his  whereabouts  afterward. 

"  Has  Mr.  Oscar  gone  to  London  ?"  I  inquired. 

"He  hired  Gootheridge's  chaise,  ma'am,  to  take  him  to 
Brighton.  And  he  told  me  with  his  own  lips  that  lie  hail 

N 


290  POOE    MISS   FINCH. 

left  Browndown  never  to  come  back.  I  know  no  more  of  it 
than  that," 

"He  had  left  Browndown  never  to  come  back!  For  Lu- 
cilla's  sake,  I  declined  to  believe  that.  The  servant  was  ex- 
aggerating, or  the  servant  had  misunderstood  what  had  been 
said  to  him.  The  letter  in  my  hand  reminded  me  that  I  had 
perhaps  needlessly  questioned  him  on  matters  which  his  mas- 
ter had  confided  to  my  own  knowledge  only.  Before  I  dis- 
missed him  for  the  night  I  made  my  deferred  inquiry  on  the 
hateful  subject  of  the  other  brother. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Nugent?" 

"At  Browndown." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  is  going  to  stay  at  Brown- 
down  ?"" 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am,  for  certain.  I  see  no  signs  of  his 
meaning  to  leave;  and  he  has  said  nothing  to  that  effect." 

I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  keep  myself  from  breaking 
out  before  the  servant.  My  indignation  almost  choked  me. 
The  best  way  was  to  wish  him  good-night.  I  took  the  best 
way — only  calling  him  back  (as  a  measure  of  caution)  to  say 
one  last  word. 

"Have  you  told  any  body  at  the  rectory  of  Mr.  Oscar's  de- 
parture ?"  I  asked. 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Say  nothing  about  it,  then,  ns  you  go  cv.t.  Thank  you 
for  bringing  me  the  letter.  Good-night." 

Having  thus  provided  against  any  whisper  of  what  had 
happened  reaching  Lucilla's  ears  that  evening,  I  turned  to 
Ilerr  Grosse  to  make  my  excuses,  and  to  tell  him  (as  I  honest- 
ly could)  that  I  was  in  sore  need  of  being  permitted  to  retire 
privately  to  my  own  room.  I  found  my  illustrious  guest  put- 
ting a  plate  over  the  final  dish  of  the  dinner,  full  of  the  ten- 
derest  anxiety  to  keep  it  warm  on  my  account. 

"Here  is  a  lofely  cheese-omelettes,"  said  Grosse.  "Two 
thirds  of  him  I  have  eaten  my  own  self.  The  odder  third  I 
sweat  with  anxiety  to  keep  warm  for  you.  Sit  down !  sit 
down  !  Every  moment  he  is  getting  cold." 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Herr  Grosse.  I  have  just  heard 
some  miserable  news — 

"Ach,  Gott!  don't  tell  it  to  me!"  the  wretch  burst  out, 
with  a  look  of  consternation.  "No  miserable  news,  I  pray 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  291 

you,  after  such  a  dinner  as  I  have  eaten.  Let  me  do  my  di- 
gestions !  My  goot-dear-creature,  if  you  lofe  me,  let  me  do 
my  digestions !" 

"  Will  you  excuse  me,  if  I  leave  you  to  your  digestion,  and 
retire  to  rny  own  room?" 

He  rose  in  a  violent  hurry,  and  opened  the  door  for  me. 

"  Yes !  yes  !  From  the  deep  bottoms  of  my  heart  I  excuse 
you.  Goot  Madame  Pratolungo,  retire  !  retire  !" 

I  had  barely  passed  the  threshold  before  the  door  was  closed 
behind  me.  I  heard  the  selfish  old  brute  rub  his  hands,  and 
chuckle  over  his  success  in  shutting  me  and  my  sorrow  both 
out  of  the  room  together. 

Just  as  my  hand  was  on  my  own  door  it  occurred  to  me 
that  I  should  do  well  to  make  sure  of  not  being  surprised  by 
Lucilla  over  the  reading  of  Oscar's  letter.  The  truth  is,  that 
I  shrank  from  reading  it.  In  spite  of  my  resolution  to  dis- 
believe the  servant,  the  dread  was  now  growing  on  me  that 
the  letter  would  confirm  his  statement,  and  would  force  it  on 
me  as  the  truth  that  Oscar  had  left  us  never  to  return.  I  re- 
traced my  steps,  and  entered  Lucilla' s  room. 

I  could  just  see  her,  by  the  dim  night-light  burning  in  a 
corner  to  enable  the  surgeon  or  the  nurse  to  find  their  way 
to  her.  She  was  alone  in  her  favorite  little  wicker-work  chair, 
with  the  doleful  white  bandage  over  her  eyes — to  all  appear- 
ance quite  content — busily  knitting  ! 

"Don't  you  feel  lonely,  Lucilla?" 

She  turned  her  head  toward  me,  and  answered  in  her  gay- 
est tones : 

"Not  in  the  least.     I  am  quite  happy  as  I  am." 

"Why  is  Zillah  not  with  you?" 

"I  sent  her  away." 

"You  sent  her  away?" 

"Yes  !  I  couldn't  enjoy  myself  thoroughly  to-night  unless 
I  felt-  that  I  was  quite  alone.  I  have  seen  him,  my  dear — I 
have  seen  him  !  How  could  you  possibly  think  I  felt  lonely? 
I  am  so  inordinately  happy  that  I  am  obliged  to  knit  to  keep 
myself  quiet.  If  you  say  much  more,  I  shall  get  up  and  dance 
— I  know  I  shall !  Where  is  Oscar?  That  odious  G rosso — 
no!  it  is  too  bad  lo  talk  of  the  dear  old  man  in  that  way, 
after  he  has  given  me  back  my  sight.  Still  it  is  cruel  of  him 
to  say  that  I  am  over-excited,  and  to  forbid  Oscar  to  come 


292  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

and  see  me  to-night.  Is  Oscar  with  you,  in  the  next  room? 
Is  he  very  much  disappointed  at  being  parted  from  me  in 
this  way?  Say  I  am  thinking  of  him — since  I  have  seen  him 
— with  such  new  thoughts  !" 

"  Oscar  is  not  here  to-night,  my  dear." 

"  No?  then  he  is  at  Browudown,  of  course — with  that  poor, 
wretched,  disfigured  brother  of  his.  I  have  got  over  my  ter- 
ror of  Nugent's  hideous  lace.  I  am  even  beginning  (though 
I  never  liked  him,  as  you  know)  to  pity  him,  with  such  a 
dreadful  complexion  as  that.  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it! 
Don't  let  us  talk  at  all !  I  want  to  go  on  thinking  of  Oscar." 

She  resumed  her  knitting,  and  shut  herself  up  luxuriously 
in  her  own  happy  thoughts.  Knowing  what  I  knew,  it  was 
nothing  less  than  heart-breaking  to  see  her  and  hear  her. 
Afraid  to  trust  myself  to  say  another  word,  I  softly  closed 
the  door,  and  charged  Zillah  (when  her  mistress  rang  her 
bell)  to  say  for  me  that  I  was  weary  after  the  events  of  the 
day,  and  had  gone  to  rest  in  my  bedroom. 

At  last  I  was  alone.  At  last  I  was  at  the  end  of  my  ma- 
noeuvres to  spare  myself  the  miserable  necessity  of  opening 
Oscar's  letter.  After  first  locking  my  door,  I  broke  the  seal, 
and  read  the  lines  which  follow : 

"  KIND  AND  DEAR  FRIEND, — Forgive  me :  I  am  going  to 
surprise  and  distress  you.  My  letter  thanks  you  gratefully, 
and  bids  you  a  last  farewell. 

"  Summon  all  your  indulgence  for  me.  Read  these  lines  to 
the  end:  they  will  tell  you  what  happened  after  I  left  the 
rectory. 

"Nothing  had  been  seen  of  Nugent,  when  I  reached  this 
house.  It  was  not  till  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  that  I  heard 
his  voice  at  the  door,  calling  to  me,  and  asking  if  I  had  come 
back.  I  answered,  and  he  joined  me  in  the  sitting-room. 
Nugent's  first  words  to  me  were  these : 

" '  Oscar,  I  have  come  to  ask  your  pardon,  and  to  bid  you 
good-by.' 

"  I  can  give  you  no  idea  of  the  tone  in  which  he  said  those 
words:  it  would  have  gone  straight  to  your  heart,  as  it  went 
straight  to  mine.  For  the  moment,  I  was  not  able  to  answer 
him.  I  could  only  offer  him  my  hand.  lie  sighed  bitterly, 
and  refused  to  take  it. 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.       -  293 

"  '  I  have  something  still  to  tell  you,'  he  said.  'Wait  till  you 
have  heard  it ;  and  give  me  your  hand  afterward — if  you  can.' 

"  He  even  refused  to  take  the  chair  to  which  I  pointed. 
He  distressed  me  by  standing  in  my  presence  as  if  he  was  my 
inferior.  He  said — 

"  No !  I  have  need  of  all  my  calmness  and  all  my  courage. 
It  shakes  both  to  recall  what  he  said  to  me.  I  sat  down  to 
write  this,  intending  to  repeat  to  you  every  thing  that  passed 
between  us.  Another  of  my  weaknesses  !  another  of  my  fail- 
ures !  The  tears  come  into  my  eyes  again  when  my  mind 
attempts  to  dwell  on  the  details.  I  can  only  tell  you  the  re- 
sult. My  brother's  confession  may  be  summed  up  in  three 
words.  Prepare  yourself  to  be  startled  ;  prepare  yourself  to 
be  grieved. 

"  Nugent  loves  her. 

"  Think  of  this  discovery,  falling  on  me  after  I  had  seen  my 
innocent  Lucilla's  arms  round  his  neck — after  ray  own  eyes 
had  shown  me  how  she  rejoiced  over  her  first  sight  of  him; 
how  she  shuddered  at  her  first  sight  of  me!  Need  I  tell  you 
what  I  suffered  ?  No. 

"  Nugent  held  out  his  hand,  when  he  had  done — as  I  had 
held  out  mine  before  he  began. 

"'The  one  atonement  I  can  make  to  you  and  to  her,'  he 
said,  '  is  never  to  let  either  of  you  set  eyes  on  me  again. 
Shake  hands,  Oscar,  and  let  me  go.' 

"If  I  had  willed  it  so — so  it  might  have  ended.  I  willed 
it  differently.  It  has  ended  differently.  Can  you  guess  how?" 

I  laid  down  the  letter  for  a  moment.  It  cut  me  with  such 
keen  regret — it  fired  me  with  such  hot  ra<je — that  I  was 

v_3  O 

within  a  hair-breadth  of  tearing  the  rest  of  it  up  unread,  and 
trampling  it  under  my  feet.  I  took  a  turn  in  the  room.  I 
dipped  my  handkerchief  in  water,  and  bound  it  round  my 
head.  In  a  minute  or  two  I  was  myself  again — I  could  force 
my  mind  away  from  my  poor  Lucilla,  and  return  to  the  let- 
ter. It  proceeded  thus: 

"  I  can  write  calmly  of  what  I  have  next  to  tell  you.  You 
shall  hear  what  I  have  decided,  and  what  I  have  done. 

"  I  told  Nugent  to  wait  in  the  room,  while  I  went  away 
and  thought  over  what  he  had  said  to  me  by  myself.  He  at- 


294  POOR    MISS   FIXCH. 

tempted  to  resist  this.  I  insisted  on  his  yielding.  For  the 
first  time  in  our  lives,  we  changed  places.  It  was  I  who  took 
the  lead,  and  he  who  followed.  I  left  him,  and  went  out  into 
the  valley  alone. 

'  The  heavenly  tranquillity,  the  comforting  solitude,  helped 
me.  I  saw  my  position  and  his  in  their  true  light.  Before 
I  got  back  I  had  decided  (cost  me  what  it  might)  on  myself 
making  the  sacrifice  to  which  my  brother  had  offered  to  sub- 
mit. For  Lucilla's  sake,  and  for  Nugent's  sake,  I  felt  the  cer- 
tain assurance  in  my  own  mind  that  it  was  my  duty,  and  not 
his,  to  go. 

"  Don't  blame  me ;  don't  grieve  for  me.  Read  the  rest.  I 
want  you  to  think  of  this  with  my  thoughts — to  feel  about 
it  as  I  feel  at  this  moment. 

"  Bearing  in  mind  what  Nugent  has  confessed,  and  what  I 
have  myself  seen,  have  I  any  right  to  hold  Lucilla  to  her  en- 
gagement? I  am  firmly  persuaded  that  I  have  no  right. 
After  inspiring  her  with  terror  and  disgust  at  the  moment 
when  her  eyes  first  looked  at  me — after  seeing  her  innocently 
happy  in  Nugent's  arms — how,  in  God's  name,  can  I  claim 
her  as  mine  ?  Our  marriage  has  become  an  impossibility. 
For  her  own  sake,  I  can  not,  I  dare  not,  appeal  to  our  en- 
gagement. The  wreck  of  my  happiness  is  nothing.  The 
wreck  of  her  happiness  would  be  a  crime.  I  absolve  her  from 
her  engagement.  She  is  free. 

"There  is  my  duty  toward  Lucilla — as  I  see  it. 

"As  to  Nugent  next.  I  owe  it  entirely  to  my  brother  (at 
the  time  of  the  Trial)  that  the  honor  of  our  family  has  been 
saved,  and  that  I  have  escaped  a  shameful  death  on  the  scaf- 
fold. Is  there  any  limit  to  the  obligation  that  he  has  laid  on 
me,  after  doing  me  such  a  service  as  this?  There  is  no  limit. 
The  man  who  loves  Lucilla  and  the  brother  who  has  saved 
my  life  are  one.  I  am  bound  to  leave  him  free — I  do  leave 
him  free — to  win  Lucilla  by  open  and  loyal  means,  if  he  can. 
As  soon  as  He  IT  Grosse  considers  that  she  is  fit  to  bear  the 
disclosure,  let  her  be  told  of  the  error  into  which  she  has 
fallen  (through  my  fault),  let  her  read  these  lines — purposely 
written  to  meet  her  eye  as  well  as  yours — and  let  my  brother 
tell  her  afterward  what  has  passed  to-night  in  this  house  be- 
tween himself  and  me.  She  loves  him  now,  believing  him  to 
be  Oscar.  Will  she  love  him  still,  after  she  has  learned  to 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  295 

knew  him  under  his  own  name  ?  The  answer  to  that  question 
rests  with  Time.  If  it  is  an  answer  in  N  agent's  favor,  I  have 
already  arranged  to  set  aside  from  my  income  a  sufficient 
yearly  sum  to  place  my  brother  in  a  position  to  begin  his 
married  life.  1  wish  to  leave  his  genius  free  to  assert  itself, 
untrammeled  by  pecuniary  cares.  Possessing,  as  I  do,  far 
more  than  enough  for  my  own  simple  wants,  I  can  dedicate 
my  spare  money  to  no  better  and  nobler  use  than  this. 

"There  is  my  duty  toward  Nugent — as  I  see  it. 

"  What  I  have  decided  on,  you  now  know.  What  I  have 
done  can  be  told  in  two  words.  I  have  left  Browndown  for- 
ever. I  have  gone,  to  live  or  die  (as  God  pleases)  under  the 
blow  that  has  fallen  on  me,  far  away  from  you  all. 

"  Perhaps,  when  years  have  passed,  and  when  their  children 
are  growing  up  round  them,  I  may  see  Lucilla  again,  and  may 
take,  as  the  hand  of  my  sister,  the  hand  of  the  beloved  wom- 
an who  might  once  have  been  my  wife.  This  may  happen, 
if  I  live.  If  I  die,  you  will  none  of  you  hear  of  it.  My  death 
shall  not  cast  its  shadow  of  sadness  on  their  lives.  Forgive 
me  and  forget  me ;  and  keep,  as  I  keep,  that  first  and  noblest 
of  all  mortal  hopes — the  hope  of  the  life  to  come. 

"I  inclose,  when  there  is  need  for  you  to  write  to  me,  the 
address  of  my  bankers  in  London.  They  will  have  their  in- 
structions. If  you  love  me,  if  you  pity  me,  abstain  from  at- 
tempting to  shake  my  resolution.  You  may  distress  me — 
but  you  will  never  change  me.  Wait  to  write  until  Nugent 
has  had  the  opportunity  of  pleading  his  own  cause,  and  Lu- 
cilla has  decided  on  her  future  life. 

"Once  more  I  thank  you  for  the  kindness  which  has  borne 
with  my  weaknesses  and  my  follies.  God  bless  you — and 
good-by.  OSCAR." 

Of  the  effect  which  the  first  reading  of  this  letter  produced 
on  me  I  shall  say  nothing.  Even  at  this  distance  of  time,  I 
shrink  from  reviving  the  memory  of  what  I  suffered  alone  in 
my  room  on  that  miserable  night.  Let  it  be  enough  if  I  tell 
you  briefly  at  what  decision  I  arrived. 

I  determined  on  doing  two  things.  First,  on  going  to 
London  by  the  earliest  train  the  next  morning,  and  finding 

•/  C7 

my  way  to  Oscar  by  means  of  his  bankers.  Secondly,  on 
takvng  measures  for  preventing  the  villain  who  had  accepted 


296  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

the  sacrifice  of  his  brother's  happiness  from  entering  the  rec- 
tory in  my  absence. 

The  one  comfort  I  had  that  night  was  in  feeling  that,  on 
these  two  points,  my  mind  was  made  up.  There  was  a  stim- 
ulant in  my  sense  of  my  own  resolution  which  strengthened 
me  to  make  my  excuses  to  Lucilla  without  betraying  the 
grief  that  tortured  me  when  I  found  myself  in  her  presence 
again.  Before  I  went  to  my  bed  I  had  left  her  quiet  and 
happy ;  I  had  arranged  with  He  IT  Grosse  that  he  was  still  to 
keep  his  excitable  patient  secluded  from  visitors  all  through 
the  next  day ;  and  I  had  secured  as  an  ally  to  help  me  in 
preventing  Nugent  from  entering  the  house  no  less  a  person 
than  Reverend  Finch  himself.  I  saw  him  in  his  study  over- 
night, and  told  him  all  that  had  happened ;  keeping  one  cir- 
cumstance only  concealed — namely,  Oscar's  insane  determi- 
nation to  share  his  fortune  with  his  infamous  brother.  I 
purposely  left  the  rector  to  suppose  that  Oscar  had  left  Lu- 
cilla free  to  receive  the  addresses  of  a  man  who  had  dissipated 
his  fortune  to  the  last  farthing.  Mr.  Finch's  harangue,  when 
this  prospect  was  brought  within  his  range  of  contemplation, 
was  something  to  be  remembered,  but  not  (on  this  occasion) 
to  be  reported — in  mercy  to  the  Church. 

By  the  train  of  the  next  morning  I  left  for  London. 

By  the  train  of  the  same  evening  I  returned  alone  to 
Dimchurch,  having  completely  failed  to  achieve  the  purpose 
which  had  taken  me  to  the  metropolis. 

Oscar  had  appeared  at  the  bank  as  soon  as  the  doors  were 
opened  in  the  morning;  had  drawn  out  some  hundreds  of 
pounds  in  circular  notes ;  had  told  the  bankers  that  they 
would  be  furnished  with  an  address,  at  which  they  could 
write  to  him,  in  due  course  of  time ;  and  had  departed  for 
the  Continent,  without  leaving  a  trace  behind  him. 

I  spent  the  day  in  making  what  arrangements  I  could  for 
discovering  him  by  the  usual  methods  of  inquiry  pursued  in 
such  cases;  and  took  the  return  train  to  the  country,  with 
my  mind  alternating  between  despair  when  I  thought  of  Lu- 
cilla, and  anger  when  I  thought  of  the  twin  brothers.  In  the 
first  bitterness  of  my  disappointment,!  was  quite  as  indignant 
with  Oscar  as  with  Nugent.  With  all  my  heart  I  cursed  the 
»lay  which  had  brought  the  one  and  the  other  to  Dimchurch. 

As  we  lengthened  our  distance  from  London, flying  smooth- 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  297 

ly  by  the  tranquil  woods  and  fields,  my  mind,  with  time  to 
help  it,  began  to  recover  its  balance.  Little  by  little  the 
unexpected  revelation  of  firmness  and  decision  in  Oscar's 
conduct  —  heartily  as  I  still  deplored  and  blamed  that  con- 
duct— began  to  have  a  new  effect  on  my  mind.  I  now  looked 
back,  in  amazement  and  self-reproach,  at  my  own  superficial 
estimate  of  the  characters  of  the  twin  brothers. 

Thinking  it  over  uninterruptedly,  with  no  one  in  the  car- 
riage but  myself,  I  arrived  at  a  conclusion  which  strongly 
influenced  my  conduct  in  guiding  Lucilla  through  the  troubles 
and  perils  that  were  still  to  come. 

Our  physical  constitutions  have,  as  I  take  it,  more  to  do 
with  the  actions  which  determine  other  people's  opinions  of 
us  (as  well  as  with  the  course  of  our  own  lives)  than  we  gen- 
erally suppose.  A  man  with  delicately  strung  nerves  says 
and  does  things  which  often  lead  us  to  think  more  meanly 
of  him  than  he  deserves.  It  is  his  great  misfortune  constantly 
to  present  himself  at  his  worst.  On  the  other  hand,  a  man 
provided  with  nerves  vigorously  constituted  is  provided  also 
with  a  constitutional  health  and  hardihood  which  express 
themselves  brightly  in  his  manners,  and  which  lead  to  a  mis- 
taken impression  that  his  nature  is  what  it  appears  to  be  on 
the  surface.  Having  good  health,  he  has  good  spirits.  Hav- 
ing good  spirits,  he  wins  as  an  agreeable  companion  on  the 
persons  with  whom  he  comes  in  contact — although  he  may 
be  hiding  all  the  while,  under  an  outer  covering  which  is 
physically  wholesome,  an  inner  nature  which  is  morally  fouL 
In  the  last  of  these  two  typical  men  I  saw  reflected — Nugent. 
In  the  first — Oscar.  All  that  was  feeblest  and  poorest  in  Os- 
car's nature  had  shown  itself  on  the  surface  in  past  times,  to 
the  concealment  of  its  stronger  and  its  nobler  side.  There 
had  been  something  hidden  in  this  supersensitive  man,  who 
had  shrunk  under  all  the  small  trials  of  his  life  in  our  village, 
which  had  proved  firm  enough,  when  the  greatness  of  the 
need  called  on  it,  to  sustain  the  terrible  disaster  that  had 
fallen  on  him.  The  nearer  I  got  to  the  end  of  my  journey 
the  more  certain  I  ielt  that  I  was  only  now  learning  (bitterly 
as  he  had  disappointed  me)  to  estimate  Oscar's  character  at 
its  true  value.  Inspired  by  this  conviction,  I  began  already 
to  face  our  hopeless  prospects  boldly.  As  long  as  I  had  life 
and  strength  to  help  her,  I  determined  that  Lucilla  should  not 

N  2 


298  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

lose  the  man  whose  best  qualities  I  had  foiled  to  discover 
until  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  turn  his  back  on  her  for- 
ever. 

When  I  reached  the  rectory  I  was  informed  that  Mr.  Finch 
wished  to  speak  to  me.  My  anxiety  about  Lucilla  made  me 
unwilling  to  submit  to  any  delay  in  seeing  her.  I  sent  a 
message  informing  the  rector  that  I  would  be  with  him  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  ran  up  stairs  into  Lucilla's  room. 

"Has  it  been  a  very  long  day,  my  dear?"  I  asked,  when 
our  first  greetings  were  over. 

o  o 

"It  has  been  a  delightful  day,"  she  answered,  joyously. 
"  Grosse  took  me  out  for  a  walk  before  he  went  back  to  Lori- 
don.  Can  you  guess  where  our  walk  led  us?" 

A  chilly  sense  of  misgiving  seized  me.  I  drew  back  from 
her.  I  looked  at  her  lovely,  happy  face  without  the  slightest 
admiration  of  it — worse  still,  with  downright  distrust  of  it. 

"Where  did  you  go?"  I  asked. 

"  To  Browndown,  of  course  !" 

An  exclamation  escaped  me.  ("Infamous  Grosse !"  spit 
out  between  my  teeth,  in  my  own  language.)  I  could  not 
help  it.  I  should  have  died  if  I  had  repressed  it — I  was  in 
such  a  rage. 

Lucilla  laughed.  "There!  there!  It  was  my  fault ;  I  in- 
sisted on  speaking  to  Oscar.  As  soon  as  I  had  my  own  way, 
I  behaved  perfectly.  I  never  asked  to  have  the  bandage 
taken  off;  I  was  satisfied  with  only  speaking  to  him.  Dear 
old  Grosse — he  isn't  half  as  hard  on  me  as  you  and  my  fa- 
ther— was  with  us  all  the  time.  It  has  done  me  so  much 
good.  Don't  be  sulky  about  it,  you  darling  Pratolungo ! 
My  'purgeon-optic'  sanctions  rny  imprudence.  I  won't  ask 
you  to  go  with  me  to  Browndown  to-morrow;  Oscar  is  corn- 
in^  to  return  my  visit." 

CT  » 

Those  last  words  decided  me.  I  had  had  a  weary  time  of 
it  since  the  morning  ;  but  (for  me)  the  day  was  not  at  an 
end  yet.  I  said  to  myself,  "  I  will  have  it  out  with  Mr.  Nu- 
gent Dubourg  before  I  go  to  my  bed  to-night  !" 

"  Can  you  spare  me  for  a  little  while  ?"  I  asked.  "  I  must 
go  to  the  other  side  of  the  house.  Your  father  wishes  to 
speak  to  me." 

Lucilla  started.     "  About  what  ?"  she  inquired,  eagerly. 

"  About  business  in  London,"  I  answered — and  left  her, 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  299 

4    • 

before  her  curiosity  could  madden  me  (in  the  state  I  was  in 
at  that  moment)  with  more  questions. 

I  found  the  rector  prepared  to  favor  me  with  his  usual  flow 
of  language.  Fifty  Mr.  Finches  could  not  have  possessed 
themselves  of  my  attention  in  the  humor  I  was  in  at  that 
moment.  To  the  reverend  gentleman's  amazement,  it  was  I 
who  began — and  not  he. 

"  I  have  just  left  Lucilla,  Mr.  Finch.  I  know  what  has 
happened." 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Madame  Pratolungo  !  One  thing  is  of 
the  utmost  importance  to  begin  with.  Do  you  thoroughly 
understand  that  I  am,  in  no  sense  of  the  word,  to  blame — " 

"  Thoroughly,"  I  interposed.  "  Of  course  they  would  not 
have  gone  to  Browndown  if  you  had  consented  to  let  Nugent 
Dubourg  into  the  house." 

"  Stop  !"  said  Mr.  Finch,  elevating  his  right  hand.  u  My 
good  creature,  you  are  in  a  state  of  hysterical  precipitation. 
I  will  be  heard  !  I  did  more  than  refuse  my  consent.  When 
the  man  Grosse — I  insist  on  your  composing  yourself — when 
the  man  Grosse  came  and  spoke  to  me  about  it,  I  did  more, 
I  say,  infinitely  more,  than  refuse  my  consent.  You  know 
my  force  of  language.  Don't  be  alarmed  !  I  said, '  Sir  !  as 
pastor  and  parent,  My  Foot  is  down — 

"  I  understand,  Mr.  Finch.  Whatever  you  said  to  Herr 
Grosse  was  quite  useless  ;  he  entirely  ignored  your  personal 
point  of  view." 

"  Madame  Pratolungo — 

"  He  found  Lucilla  dangerously  agitated  by  her  separation 
from  Oscar :  he  asserted  what  he  calls  his  professional  free- 
dom of  action." 

"  Madame  Pratolungo — " 

"You  persisted  in  closing  your  doors  to  Nugent  Dubourg. 
lie  persisted,  on  his  side — and  took  Lucilla  to  Browndown." 

Mr.  Finch  got  on  his  feet,  and  asserted  himself  at  the  full 
pitch  of  his  tremendous  voice. 

"  Silence  !"  he  shouted,  with  a  smack  of  his  open  hand  on 
the  table  at  his  side. 

I  didn't  care,  /shouted,  /came  down  with  a  smack  of 
my  hand  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 

"  One  question,  Sir,  before  I  leave  you,"  I  said.  "  Since 
your  daughter  went  to  Browndown  you  have  had  many 


300  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

hours  at  your  disposal.  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Nugent  Du- 
bourg?" 

The  Pope  of  Dimchurch  suddenly  collapsed,  in  full  fulmi- 
nation  of  his  domestic  Bulls. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  replied,  adopting  his  most  elaborately 
polite  manner.  "This  requires  considerable  explanation." 

I  declined  to  wait  for  considerable  explanation.  "  You 
have  not  seen  him  ?"  I  said. 

"  I  have  not  seen  him,"  echoed  Mr.  Finch.  "  My  position 
toward  Nugent  Dubourg  is  very  remarkable,  Madame  Prato- 
lungo.  In  my  parental  character,  I  should  like  to  wring  his 
neck.  In  my  clerical  character,  I  feel  it  incumbent  on  me  to 
pause,  and  write  to  him.  You  feel  the  responsibility  ?  You 
understand  the  distinction  ?" 

I  understood  that  lie  was  afraid.  Answering  him  by  an 
inclination  of  the  head  (I  hate  a  coward  !),  I  walked  silently 
to  the  door. 

Mr.  Finch  returned  my  bow  with  a  look  of  helpless  per- 
plexity. "Are  you  going  to  leave  me ?"  he  inquired,  blandly. 

"  I  am  going  to  Browndown." 

If  I  had  said  that  I  was  going  to  a  place  which  the  rector 
had  frequent  occasion  to  mention  in  the  stronger  passages  of 
his  sermons,  Mr.  Finch's  face  could  hardly  have  shown  more 
astonishment  and  alarm  than  it  exhibited  when  I  replied  to 
him  in  those  terms.  He  lifted  his  persuasive  right  hand  ;  he 
opened  his  eloquent  lips.  Before  the  coming  overflow  of 
language  could  reach  me  I  was  out  of  the  room,  on  my  way 
to  Browndown. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-EIGHTH. 

IS    THERE    NO    EXCUSE    FOR    HIM  ? 

OSCAR'S  dismissed  servant  (left,  during  the  usual  month  of 
warning,  to  take  care  of  the  house)  opened  the  door  to  me 
when  I  knocked.  Although  the  hour  was  already  a  late  one 
in  primitive  Dimchurch,  the  man  showed  no  signs  of  surprise 
at  seeing  me. 

"  Is  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg  at  home  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am."  He  lowered  his  voice,  and  added,  "  J 
think  Mr.  Nugent  expected  to  sec  you  to-night." 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  301 

Whether  he  intended  it  or  not,  the  servant  had  done  me  a 
good  turn — he  had  put  me  on  my  guard.  Nugent  Dubourg 
understood  my  character  better  than  I  had  understood  his. 
He  had  foreseen  what  would  happen  when  I  heard  of  Lueilla's 
visit,  on  my  return  to  the  rectory,  and  lie  had,  no  doubt,  pre- 
pared himself  accordingly.  I  was  conscious  of  a  certain  nerv- 
ous trembling  (I  own)  as  I  followed  the  servant  to  the  sitting- 
room.  At  the  moment,  however,  when  he  opened  the  door, 
this  ignoble  sensation  left  me  as  suddenly  as  it  had- come.  1 
felt  myself  Pratolungo's  widow  again  when  I  entered  the  room. 

A  reading-lamp,  with  its  shade  down,  was  the  only  light 
on  the  table.  Nugent  Dubourg,  comfortably  reposing  in  an 
easy-chair,  sat  by  the  lamp,  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth  and  a 
book  in  his  hand.  He  put  down  the  book  on  the  table  as  he 
rose  to  receive  me.  Knowing  by  this  time  what  sort  of  a 
man  I  had  to  deal  with,  I  was  determined  not  to  let  even  the 
merest  trifles  escape  me.  It  might  have  its  use  in  helping 
me  to  understand  him  if  I  knew  how  he  had  been  occupying 
his  mind  while  he  was  expecting  me  to  arrive.  I  looked  at 
the  book.  It  was  "  Rousseau's  Confessions." 

He  advanced  with  his  pleasant  smile,  and  offered  his  hand 
as  if  nothing  had  happened  to  disturb  our  ordinary  relations 
toward  each  other.  I  drew  back  a  step,  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Won't  you  shake  hands  with  me?"  he  asked. 

"  I  will  answer  that  directly,"  I  said.  "  Where  is  your 
brother  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  When  you  do  know,  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg,  and  when  you 
have  brought  your  brother  back  to  this  house,  I  will  take 
your  hand — not  before." 

Tie  bowed  resignedly,  with  a  little  satirical  shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  and  asked  if  he  might  offer  me  a  chair. 

I  took  a  chair  for  myself,  and  placed  it  so  that  I  might  be 
opposite  to  him  when  he  resumed  his  seat.  He  checked 
himself  in  the  act  of  sitting  down,  and  looked  toward  the 
open  window. 

"  Shall  I  throw  away  my  cigar  V"  he  said. 

"  Not  on  my  account.     I  have  no  objection  to  smoking." 

"  Thank  you."  He  took  his  chair — keeping  his  face  in  the 
partial  obscurity  cast  by  the  shade  of  the  lamp.  After 
smoking  for  a  moment  he  spoke  again,  without  turning  to 


302  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

look  at  me.  "  May  I  ask  what  your  object  is  in  honoring 
me  with  this  visit  ?" 

"  I  have  two  objects.  The  first  is  to  see  that  you  leave 
Dimchurch  to-morrow  morning.  The  second  is  to  restore 
your  brother  to  happiness  by  uniting  him  to  his  promised 
wife." 

He  looked  round  at  me  quickly.  His  experience  of  my  ir- 
ritable temper  had  not  prepared  him  for  the  perfect  compos- 
ure of  voice  and  manner  with  which  I  answered  his  question. 
He  looked  back  again  from  me  to  his  cigar,  and  knocked  off 
the  ash  at  the  tip  of  it  (considering  with  himself)  before  he 
addressed  his  next  words  to  me. 

"  We  will  come  to  the  question  of  my  leaving  Dimchurch 
presently,"  he  said.  "  Have  you  received  a  letter  from  Os- 
car ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  read  it  ?" 

"  I  have  read  it." 

"Then  you  know  that  we  understand  each  other?" 

"  I  know  that  your  brother  has  sacrificed  himself,  and 
that  you  have  taken  a  base  advantage  of  the  sacrifice." 

He  started,  and  looked  round  at  me  once  more.  I  saw 
that  something  in  my  language  or  in  my  tone  of  speaking 
had  stung  him. 

"  You  have  your  privilege  as  a  lady,"  he  said.  "  Don't 
push  it  too  far.  What  Oscar  has  done,  he  has  done  of  his 
own  free-will." 

"  What  Oscar  has  done,"  I  rejoined,  "  is  lamentably  foolish, 
cruelly  wrong.  Still,  perverted  as  it  is,  there  is  something 
gene"ous,  something  noble,  in  the  motive  which  has  led  him. 
As  for  your  conduct  in  this  matter,  I  see  nothing  but  what 
is  mean,  nothing  but  what  is  cowardly,  in  the  motive  which 
has  led  you" 

He  started  to  his  feet,  flung  his  cigar  into  the  empty  fire- 
place. 

"  Madame  Pratolungo,"  lie  said,  "  I  have  not  the  honor  of 
knowing  any  thing  of  your  family.  I  can't  call  a  woman  to 
account  for  insulting  me.  Do  you  happen  to  have  any  man 
related  to  you,  in  or  out  of  England?" 

"  I  happen  to  have  what  will  do  equally  well  on  this  oc- 
casion," I  replied.  "  I  have  a  hearty  contempt  for  threats 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  303 

of  all  sorts,  and  a  steady  resolution  in  me  to  say  what  I 
think." 

He  walked  to  the  door,  and  opened  it. 

"  I  decline  to  give  you  the  opportunity  of  saying  any 
thing  more,"  he  rejoined.  "  I  beg  to  leave  you  in  possession 
of  the  room,  and  to  wish  you  good-evening." 

He  opened  the  door.  I  had  entered  the  house  armed  in 
my  own  mind  with  a  last,  desperate  resolve,  only  to  be  com- 
municated to  him,  or  to  any  body,jn  the  final  emergency 
and  at  the  eleventh  hour.  The  time  had  come  for  saying 
what  I  had  hoped  with  my  whole  heart  to  have  left  unsaid. 

I  rose  on  my  side,  and  stopped  him  as  he  was  leaving  the 
room. 

"Return  to  your  chair  and  your  book,"  I  said.  "Our  in- 
terview is  at  an  end.  In  leaving  the  house  I  have  one  last 
word  to  say.  You  are  wasting  your  time  in  remaining  at 
Dimchurch." 

"I  am  the  best  judge  of  that,"  he  answered,  making  way 
for  me  to  go  out. 

"  Pardon  me,  you  are  not  in  a  position  to  judge  at  all. 
You  don't  know  what  I  mean  to  do  as  soon  as  I  get  back  to 
the  rectory." 

He  instantly  changed  his  position,  placing  himself  in  the 
door-way  so  as  to  prevent  me  from  leaving  the  room. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?"  he  asked,  keeping  his  eyes 
attentively  fixed  on  mine. 

"  I  mean  to  force  you  to  leave  Dimchurch." 

He  laughed  insolently.  I  went  on  as  quietly  as  before. 
"You  have  personated  your  brother  to  Lucilla  this  morn- 
ing," I  paid.  "You  have  done  that,  Mr.  Nugent  Dubourg, 
for  the  last  time." 

"Have  I?     Who  will  prevent  me  from  doing  it  again?" 

"  I  will." 

This  time  lie  took  it  seriously. 

"You?"  he  said.  "I low  are  you  to  control  me,  if  you 
please  ?" 

"  I  can  control  you  through  Lucilla.  When  I  get  back  to 
the  rectory  T  can,  and  will,  tell  Lucilla  the  truth." 

He  started,  and  instantly  recovered  himself. 

"You  forget  something,  Madame  Pratolungo.  You  for- 
get what  the  surgeon  in  attendance  on  her  has  told  us." 


304  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

"  I  remember  it  perfectly.  If  we  say  or  do  any  thing  to 
agitate  his  patient,  in  her  present  state,  the  surgeon  refuses 
to  answer  for  the  consequences." 

"  Well  ?" 

"Well — between  the  alternative  of  leaving  you  free  to 
break  both  their  hearts,  and  the  alternative  of  setting  the 
Kiirgeon's  warning  at  defiance — dreadful  as  the  choice  is,  my 
choice  is  made.  I  tell  you  to  your  face,  I  would  rather  see 
Lucilla  blind  again  than  see  her  your  wife." 

His  estimate  of  the  strength  of  the  position  on  his  side 
had  been  necessarily  based  on  one  conviction — the  conviction 
that  Grosse's  professional  authority  would  tie  my  tongue.  I 
had  scattered  his  calculations  to  the  winds.  He  turned  so 
deadly  pale  that,  dim  as  the  light  was,  I  could  see  the  change 
in  his  face. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  !"  he  said. 

"Present  yourself  at  the  rectory  to-morrow,"  I  answered, 
"and  you  will  see.  I  have  no  more  to  say  to  you.  Let  me 
by." 

You  may  suppose  I  was  only  trying  to  frighten  him.  I 
was  doing  nothing  of  the  sort.  Blame  me  or  approve  of  me 
as  you  please,  I  was  expressing  the  resolution  which  I  had 
in  my  mind  when  I  spoke.  Whether  my  courage  would 
have  held  out  through  the  walk  from  Browndown  to  the  rec- 
tory— whether  I  should  have  shrunk  from  it  when  I  actually 
found  myself  in  Lueilla's  presence — is  more  than  I  can  vent- 
ure  to  decide.  All  I  say  is  that  I  did,  in  my  desperation, 
positively  mean  doing  it  at  the  moment  when  I  threatened 
to  do  it,  and  that  Nugent  Dubourg  heard  something  in  my 
voice  which  told  him  I  was  in  earnest. 

"You  fiend!"  he  burst  out,  stepping  close  up  to  me,  with 
a  look  of  fury. 

The  whole  passionate  fervor  of  the  love  that  the  miserable 
wretch  felt  for  her  shook  him  from  head  to  foot  as  his  horror 
of  me  found  its  way  to  expression  in  those  two  words. 

"  Spare  me  your  opinion  of  my  character,"  I  said.  "  I 
don't  expect  you  to  understand  the  motives  of  an  honest 
woman.  For  the  last  time,  let  me  by !" 

Instead  of  letting  me  by,  he  locked  the  door,  and  put  the 
key  in  his  pocket.  That  done,  he  pointed  to  the  chair  that  I 
had  left. 


POOR   MISS   FINCn.  305 

"Sit  down,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  sinking  in  his  voice, 
which  implied  a  sudden  change  in  his  temper.  "Let  me 
have  a  minute  to  myself." 

I  returned  to  my  place.  He  took  his  own  chair  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
We  waited  a  while  in  silence.  I  looked  at  him  once  or  twice, 
as  the  minutes  followed  each  other.  The  shaded  lamp-light 
glistened  dimly  on  something  between  his  fingers.  I  rose 
softly,  and  stretched  across  the  table  to  look  closer.  Tears ! 
On  my  word  of  honor,  tears  forcing  their  way  through  his 
fingers,  as  he  held  them  over  his  face  !  I  had  been  on  the 
point  of  speaking.  I  sat  down  again  in  silence. 

"  Say  what  you  want  of  me.  Tell  me  what  you  wish  me 
to  do." 

These  were  his  first  words.  He  spoke  them  without  mov- 
ing his  hands;  so  quietly,  so  sadly,  with  such  hopeless  sor- 
row, such  uncomplaining  resignation  in  his  voice,  that  I,  who 
had  entered  that  room  hating  him,  rose  again,  and  went 
round  to  his  chair.  I,  who  a  minute  ago,  if  I  had  had  the 
strength,  would  have  struck  him  down  on  the  floor  at  my 
feet,  laid  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  pitying  him  from  the  bot- 
tom of  my  heart.  That  is  what  women  are !  There  is  a 
specinu'ii  of  their  sense,  firmness,  and  self-control! 

"  Be  just,  Nugent,"  I  said.  "  Be  honorable.  Be  all  that  I 
once  thought  you.  I  v/ant  no  more." 

He  dropped  his  arms  on  the  table;  his  head  fell  on  them, 
and  he  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying.  It  was  so  like  his  brother 
that  I  could  almost  have  fancied  I,  too,  had  mistaken  one  of 
them  for  the  other.  "  Oscar  over  again,"  I  thought  to  my- 
self, "en  the  first  day  when  I  spoke  to  him  in  this  very 
rcom !» 

"Come!"  I  said,  when  he  was  quieter.  "We  shall  end  in 
understanding  each  other  and  in  respecting  each  other,  after 
all." 

He  irritably  shook  my  hand  oft*  his  shoulder,  and  turned 
his  face  away  from  the  light. 

"Don't  talk  of  understanding  we"  he  said.  "Your  sym- 
pathy is  for  Oscar.  He  is  the  victim;  lie  is  the  martyr;  he 
has  all  your  consideration  and  all  your  pity.  I  am  a  coward; 
I  am  a  villain;  I  have  no  honor  and  no  heart.  Tread  Me 
under  foot  like  a  reptile.  My  misery  is  only  what  I  deserve! 


300  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

Compassion  is  thrown  away — isn't  it? — on  such  a  scoundrel 
as  I  am  !" 

I  was  sorely  puzzled  how  to  answer  him.  All  that  he  had 
said  against  himself  I  had  thought  of  him  in  my  own  mind. 
And  why  not?  He  had  behaved  infamously;  he  was  a  fit 
object  for  righteous  indignation.  And  yet — and  yet — it  is 
sometimes  so  very  hard,  however  badly  a  man  may  have  be- 
haved, for  women  to  hold  out  against  forgiving  him  when 

7  O  ~  O 

they  know  that  a  woman  is  at  the  bottom  of  it ! 

"Whatever  I  may  have  thought  of  you,"  I  said,  "it  is 
still  in  your  power,  Nugent,  to  win  back  my  old  regard  for 
you." 

"Is  it?"  he  answered,  scornfully.  "I  know  better  than 
that.  You  are  not  talking  to  Oscar  now — you  are  talking 
to  a  man  who  has  had  some  experience  of  women.  I  know 
how  you  all  hold  to  your  opinions  because  they  are  your 
opinions,  without  asking  yourselves  whether  they  are  right 
or  wrong.  There  are  men  who  could  understand  me  and 

o 

pity  me.  No  woman  can  do  it.  The  best  and  cleverest 
among  you  don't  know  what  love  is — as  a  man  feels  it.  It 
isn't  the  frenzy  with  You  that  it  is  with  Us.  It  acknowl- 
edges restraints  in  a  woman — it  bursts  through  every  thing 
in  a  man.  It  robs  him  of  his  intelligence,  his  honor,  his  self- 
respect ;  it  levels  him  with  the  brutes;  it  debases  him  into 
idiocy;  it  lashes  him  into  madness.  I  tell  you  I  am  not  ac- 
countable for  my  own  actions.  The  kindest  thing  you  could 
do  for  me  would  be  to  shut  me  up  in  a  mad-house.  The  best 
thing  I  could  do  for  myself  would  be  to  cut  my  throat.  Oh 
yes!  this  is  a  shocking  way  of  talking,  isn't  it?  I  ought  to 
struggle  against  it,  as  you  say.  I  ought  to  summon  my  self- 
control.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Here  is  a  clever  woman — here  is  an 
experienced  woman.  And  yet,  though  she  has  seen  me  in 
Lucilla's  company  hundreds  of  times,  she  has  never  once  dis- 
covered the  signs  of  a  struggle  in  me!  From  the  moment 
Avhen  I  first  saw  that  heavenly  creature  it  has  been  one  long 
fight  against  myself,  one  infernal  torment  of  shame  and  re- 
morse; and  this  clever  friend  of  mine  has  observed  so  little 
and  knows  so  little  that  she  can  only  view  my  conduct  in 
one  light — it  is  the  conduct  of  a  coward  and  a  villain!" 

He  got  up,  and  took  a  turn  in  the  room.  I  was — naturally, 
I  think — a  little  irritated  by  his  way  of  putting  it.  A  man 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  307 

Assuming  to  know  more  about  love  tnan  a  woman!  Was 
there  ever  such  a  monstrous  perversion  of  the  truth  as  that? 
I  appeal  to  the  women ! 

"  You  ought  to  be  the  last  person  to  blame  me,"  I  said. 
"I  had  too  high  an  opinion  of  you  to  suspect  what  was  go- 
ing on.  I  will  never  make  the  same  mistake  again — I  prom- 
ise you  that!" 

He  came  back,  and  stood  still  in  front  of  me,  looking  mo 
hard  in  the  face. 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  say  you  saw  nothing  to  set  you 
thinking  on  the  day  when  I  first  met  her?"  he  asked.  "You 
were  there  in  the  room — didn't  you  see  that  she  struck  me 
dumb?  Did  you  notice  nothing  suspicious  at  a  later  time? 
When  I  was  suffering  martyrdom,  if  I  only  looked  at  her, 
was  there  nothing  to  be  seen  in  me  which  told  its  own  tale?" 

"I  noticed  that  you  were  never  at  your  ease  with  her,"  I 
replied.  "But  I  liked  you  and  trusted  you,  and  I  failed  to 
understand  it.  That's  all." 

"Did  you  fail  to  understand  every  thing  that  followed? 
Didn't  I  speak  to  her  father?  Didn't  I  try  to  hasten  their 
marriage?  Did  I  really  conceal  what  I  felt  when  you  told 
me  that  the  first  thing  which  attracted  her  in  Oscar  was  his 
voice,  and  when  I  remembered  that  my  voice  and  his  were 
exactly  alike?  When  we  first  talked  of  his  telling  Lucilla 
of  the  discoloration  of  his  face,  did  I  not  agree  with  you  that 
he  ought  to  put  himself  right  with  her,  in  his  own  interests? 
When  she  all  but  found  it  out  for  herself,  whose  influence 
was  used  to  make  him  own  it?  Mine!  WThat  did  I  do  when 
he  tried  to  confess  it,  and  failed  to  make  her  understand 
him  ?  what  did  I  do  when  she  first  committed  the  mistake 
of  believing  me  to  be  the  disfigured  man  ?" 

The  audacity  of  that  last  question  fairly  took  away  my 
breath.  "You  cruelly  helped  to  deceive  her,"  I  answered, 
indignantly.  "You  basely  encouraged  your  brother  in  his 
fatal  policy  of  silence." 

He  looked  at  me  with  an  angry  amazement  on  his  side 
which  more  than  equaled  the  angry  amazement  on  mine. 

"So  much  for  the  delicate  perception  of  a  woman!"  he  ex- 
claimed; "so  much  for  the  wonderful  tact  which  is  the  pecul- 
iar gift  of  the  sex  !  You  can  see  no  motive  but  a  bad  mo- 
tive in  my  sacrificing  myself  for  Oscar's  sake!" 


308  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

I  began  to  discern  faintly  that  there  might  have  been  an.- 
other  than  a  bad  motive  for  his  conduct.  But — well!  I  dare 
say  I  was  wrong;  I  resented  the  tone  he  was  taking  with 
me;  I  would  have  owned  I  had  made  a  mistake  to  anybody 
else  in  the  world  ;  I  wouldn't  own  it  to  him.  There  ! 

"Look  back  for  one  moment,"  he  resumed,  in  quieter  and 
gentler  tones.  "See  how  hardly  you  have  judged  me!  I 
seized  the  opportunity — I  swear  to  you  this  is  true — I  seized 
the  opportunity  of  making  myself  an  object  of  horror  to  her 
the  moment  I  heard  of  the  mistake  that  she  had  made.  Feel- 
ing in  myself  that  I  was  growing  less  and  less  capable  of 
avoiding  her,  I  caught  at  the  chance  of  making  her  avoid 
me;  I  did  that,  and  I  did  more:  I  entreated  Oscar  to  let  me 
leave  Dimchurch.  He  appealed  to  me,  in  the  name  of  our 
love  for  each  other,  to  remain.  I  couldn't  resist  him.  Where 
do  you  see  signs  of  the  conduct  of  a  scoundrel  in  all  this? 
Would  a  scoundrel  have  betrayed  himself  to  you  a  dozen 
times  over — as  I  did  in  that  talk  of  ours  in  the  summer- 
house?  I  remember  saying  in  so  many  words  I  wished  I 
had  never  come  to  Dimchurch.  What  reason  but  one  could 
there  be  for  my  saying  that  ?  How  is  it  that  you  never  even 
asked  me  what  I  meant?" 

"You  forget,"  I  interposed,  "that  I  had  no  opportunity  of 
asking  you.  Lucilla  interrupted  us,  and  diverted  my  atten- 
tion to  other  things.  What  do  yon  mean  by  putting  me  on 
my  defense  in  this  way  ?"  I  went  on,  more  and  more  irri- 
tated by  the  tone  he  was  taking  with  me.  "  What  right 
have  you  to  judge  my  conduct?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  kind  of  vacant  surprise. 

"Have  I  been  judging  your  conduct?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes  !" 

"Perhaps  I  was  thinking,  if  you  had  seen  my  infatuation 
in  time,  you  might  have  checked  it  in  time.  No  !"  he  ex- 
claimed, before  I  could  answer  him.  "  Nothing  could  have 
checked  it — nothing  will  cure  it  but  my  death.  Let  us  try 
to  agree.  I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  have  offended  you.  I  am 
willing  to  take  a  just  view  of  your  conduct.  Will  you  take 
a  just  view  of  mine?" 

I  tried  hard  to  take  a  just  view.  Though  I  resented  his 
manner  of  speaking  to  me,  I  nevertheless  secretly  felt  for 
him,  as  I  have  confessed.  Still  I  could  not  forget  that  he 


POOH    MISS   FINCH.  309 

had  attempted  to  attract  to  himself  Liieilla's  first  look  on  the 
day  when  she  tried  her  sight;  that  he  had  personated  his 
brother  to  Lucilla  that  very  morning;  that  he  had  suffered  his 
brother  to  go  away  heart-broken,  :i  voluntary  exile  from  all 
that  he  held  dear.  No  !  I  could  leel  tor  him,  but  I  could  not 
take  a  just  view  of  him.  I  sat  down,  and  said  nothing. 

lie  returned  to  the  question  between  us,  treating  me  with 
the  needful  politeness  when  he  spoke  next.  For  all  that,  lie 
alarmed  me  by  what  he  now  said,  as  he  had  not  alarmed  me 

yet. 

"  I  repeat  what  I  have  already  told  you,"  he  proceeded. 
"I  am  no  longer  accountable  for  what  1  do.  If  I  know  any 
thing  of  myself,  I  believe  it  will  be  useless  to  trust  me  in  the 
future.  While  I  am  capable  of  speaking  the  truth,  let  me 
tell  it.  Whatever  happens  at  a  later  time,  remember  this — 
I  have  honestly  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  to-night." 

"Stop!"  I  cried.  "I  don't  understand  your  reckless  way 
of  talking.  Every  man  is  accountable  for  Avhat  lie  does." 

He  checked  me  there  by  an  impatient  wave  of  his  hand. 

"  Keep  your  opinion  !  I  don't  dispute  it.  You  will  see  ; 
you  will  see.  Madame  Pratolungo,  the  day  when  we  had 
that  private  talk  of  ours  in  the  rectory  summer-house  marks 
a  memorable  day  in  my  calendar.  My  last  honest  struggle 
to  be  true  to  my  poor  Oscar  ended  with  that  day.  The 
efforts  I  have  made  since  then  have  been  little  better  than 
mere  outbreaks  of  despair.  They  have  done  nothing  to  help 
me  against  the  passion  that  has  become  the  one  feeling  and 
the  one  misery  of  my  life.  Don't  talk  of  resistance.  All  re- 
sistance stops  at  a  certain  point.  Since  the  time  I  have  told 
you  of,  my  resistance  has  reached  its  limits.  You  have 
heard  how  I  struggled  against  temptation  as  long  as  I  could 
resist  it.  I  have  only  to  tell  you  how  I  have  yielded  to  it 
now." 

The  reckless,  shameless  composure  with  which  he  said  that 
began  to  set  me  against  him  once  more.  The  perpetual 
shifts  and  contradictions  in  him  bewildered  and  irritated  me. 
Quicksilver  itself  seemed  to  be  less  slippery  to  lay  hold  of 
than  this  man. 

"Do  you  remember  the  day,"  he  asked,  "  when  Lucilla  lost 
her  temper,  and  received  you  so  rudely  at  your  visit  to 
Browndown  ?" 


310  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

I  made  a  sign  in  the  affirmative. 

"You  spoke,  a  little  while  since,  of  my  personating  Oscar 
to  her.  I  personated  him,  on  the  occasion  I  have  just  men- 
tioned, for  the  first  time.  You  were  present  and  heard  me. 
Did  you  care  to  speculate  on  the  motives  which  made  me  im- 
pose myself  on  her  as  my  brother?" 

"As  well  as  I  can  remember,"  I  answered,  "I  made  the 
first  guess  that  occurred  to  me.  I  thought  you  were  indulg- 
ing in  a  moment's  mischievous  amusement  at  Lucilla's  ex- 
pense." 

"I  was  indulging  in  the  passion  that  consumed  me!  I 
longed  to  feel  the  luxury  of  her  touching  me  and  being  fa- 
miliar with  me,  under  the  impression  that  I  was  Oscar. 
Worse  even  than  that,  I  wanted  to  try  how  completely  I 
could  impose  on  her — how  easily  I  might  marry  her,  if  I 
could  only  deceive  you  all,  and  take  her  away  somewhere  by 
herself.  The  devil  was  in  possession  of  me.  I  don't  know 
how  it  might  have  ended  if  Oscar  had  not  come  in,  and  if 
Lucilla  had  not  burst  out  as  she  did.  She  distressed  me — 
she  frightened  me — she  gave  me  back  again  to  my  better  self. 
I  rushed,  without  stopping  to  prepare  her,  into  the  question 
of  her  restoration  to  sight,  as  the  only  way  of  diverting  her 
mind  from  the  vile  advantage  that  I  had  taken  of  her  blind- 
ness. That  night,  Madame  Pratolungo,  I  suifered  pangs  of 
self-reproach  and  remorse  which  would  even  have  satisfied 
you.  At  the  very  next  opportunity  that  offered  I  made  my 
atonement  to  Oscar.  I  supported  his  interests;  I  even  put 
the  words  he  was  to  say  to  Lucilla  into  his  lips — " 

"  When  ?"  I  broke  in.     "  Where  ?    How  V" 

"  When  the  two  curgeons  had  left  us.  In  Lucilla's  sitting- 
room.  In  the  heat  of  the  discussion  whether  she  should  sub- 
mit to  the  operation  at  once,  or  whether  she  should  marry 
Oscar  first,  and  let  Grosse  try  his  experiment  on  her  eyes  at 
a  later  time.  If  you  recall  our  conversation,  you  will  re- 
member that  I  did  all  I  could  to  persuade  Lucilla  to  marry 
my  brother  before  Grosse  tried  his  experiment  on  her  sight. 
Quite  useless!  You  threw  all  the  weight  of  your  influence 
into  the  opposite  scale.  I  failed.  It  made  no  difference.  I 
had  done  what  I  had  done  in  sheer  despair:  mere  impulse — 
it  didn't  last.  When  the  next  temptation  tried  me  I  behaved 
like  a  scoundrel — as  you  say." 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  311 

"I  have  said  nothing,"  I  answered,  shortly. 

"  Very  well — as  you  think,  then.  Did  you  suspect  me  at 
last,  when  we  met  in  the  village  yesterday  ?  Surely  even 
your  eyes  must  have  seen  through  me  on  that  occasion?" 

I  answered  silently  by  an  inclination  of  my  head.  I  had 
no  wish  to  drift  into  another  quarrel.  Sorely  as  he  was  pre- 
suming on  my  endurance,  I  tried,  in  Lucilla's  interests,  to 
keep  on  friendly  terms  with  him. 

"  You  concealed  it  wonderfully  well/'  he  went  on,  "  when 
I  tried  to  find  out  whether  you  had  or  had  not  discovered 
me.  You  virtuous  people  are  not  bad  hands  at  deception 
when  it  suits  your  interests  to  deceive.  I  needn't  tell  you 
what  my  temptation  was  yesterday.  The  first  look  of  her 
eyes  when  they  opened  on  the  world,  the  first  light  of  love 
and  joy  breaking  on  her  heavenly  face — what  madness  to  ex- 
pect me  to  let  that  look  fall  on  another  man,  that  light  show 
itself  to  other  eyes  !  No  living  being,  adoring  her  as  I  adored 
her,  would  have  acted  otherwise  than  I  did.  I  could  have 
fallen  down  on  my  knees  and  worshiped  Grossc  when  he  in- 
nocently proposed  to  me  to  take  the  very  place  in  the  room 
which  I  was  determined  to  occupy.  You  saw  what  I  had  in 
my  mind.  You  did  your  best— and  did  it  admirably — to  de- 
feat me.  Oh,  you  pattern  people,  you  can  be  as  shifty  with 
your  resources,  when  a  cunning  trick  is  to  be  played,  as  the 
worst  of  us.  You  saw  how  it  ended.  Fortune  stood  my 
friend  at  the  eleventh  hour;  fortune  can  shine,  like  the  sun, 
on  the  just  and  the  unjust!  ./had  the  first  look  of  her  eves! 
/  felt  the  first  light  of  love  and  joy  in  her  face  falling  on 
msf  /have  had  her  arms  round  me,  and  her  bosom  on 
mine — 

I  could  endure  it  no  longer. 

"  Open  the  door !"  I  said.  "  I  am  ashamed  to  be  sitting  in 
the  same  room  with  you  !" 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  it,"  he  answered.  "  You  may  well  be 
ashamed  of  me.  I  am  ashamed  of  myself." 

There  was  nothing  cynical  in  his  tone,  nothing  insolent  in 
his  manner.  The  same  man  who  had  just  gloried,  in  that 
abominable  way,  in  his  victory  over  innocence  and  misfor- 
tune, now  spoke  and  looked  like  a  man  who  was  honestly 
ashamed  of  himself.  If  I  could  only  have  felt  convinced  that 
he  was  mocking  me  or  playing  the  hypocrite  with  me,  I 


312  POOR    MISS    FIXCII. 

should  have  known  what  to  do.  But  1  say. again — impossi- 
ble as  it  seems — he  was,  beyond  all  doubt,  genuinely  peni- 
tent for  what  he  had  said  the  instant  after  he  had  said  it ! 
With  all  my  experience  of  humanity,  and  all  my  practice  iu 
dealing  with  strange  characters,  I  stopped  midway  between 
Nugent  and  the  locked  door,  thoroughly  puzzled. 

"  Do  you  believe  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  I  answered. 

He  took  the  key  of  the  door  out  of  his  pocket,  and  put  it 
on  the  table,  close  to  the  chair  from  which  I  had  just  risen. 

"  I  lose  my  head  when  I  talk  of  her  or  think  of  her,"  he 
went  on.  "I  would  give  every  thing  I  possess  not  to  have 
said  what  I  said  just  now.  No  language  you  can  use  is  too 
strong  to  condemn  it.  The  words  burst  out  of  me.  If  Lu- 
cilla  herself  had  been  present,  I  couldn't  have  controlled 
them.  Go,  if  you  like.  I  have  no  right  to  keep  you  here 
after  behaving  as  I  have  done.  There  is  the  key,  at  your 
service.  Only  think  first,  before  you  leave  me.  You  had 
something  to  propose  when  you  came  in.  You  might  influ- 
ence me — you  might  shame  me  into  behaving  like  an  honor- 
able man.  Do  as  you  please.  It  rests  with  you." 

Which  was  I — a  good  Christian,  or  a  contemptible  fool? 
I  went  back  once  more  to  my  chair,  and  determined  to  give 
him  a  last  chance. 

"  That's  kind,"  he  said.  "  You  encourage  me ;  you  show 
me  that  I  am  worth  trying  again.  I  had  a  generous  impulse 
in  this  room  yesterday.  It  might  have  been  something  better 
than  an  impulse,  if  I  had  not  had  another  temptation  set 
straight  in  my  way." 

"What  temptation?"  I  asked. 

"Oscar's  letter  has  told  you:  Oscar  himself  put  the  temp- 
tation in  my  way.  You  must  have  seen  it." 

"I  saw  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"Doesn't  he  tell  you  that  I  offered  to  leave  Dimchurch  for- 
ever? I  meant  it.  I  saw  the  misery  in  the  poor  fellow's 
face  when  Grosse  and  I  were  leading  Lucilla  out  of  the  room. 
With  my  whole  heart  I  meant  it.  If  he  had  taken  my  hand, 
and  had  said  Good-by,  I  should  have  gone.  He  wouldn't 
take  my  hand.  He  insisted  on  thinking  it  over  by  himself. 
He  came  back  resolved  to  made  the  sacrifice  on  his  side — 

"Why  did  you  accept  the  sacrifice?" 


POOH   MISS    FINCII.  313 

"Because  he  tempted  me." 

"  Tempted  you  ?" 

"  Yes.  What  else  can  you  call  it,  when  he  offered  to  leave 
me  free  to  plead  my  own  cause  with  Lucilla  ?  What  else 
can  you  call  it,  when  he  showed  me  a  future  life,  which  was 
a  life  with  Lucilla?  Poor,  dear,  generous  fellow,  he  tempt- 
ed me  to  stay  when  he  ought  to  have  encouraged  me  to  go. 
How  could  I  resist  him  ?  Blame  the  passion  that  has  got  me 
body  and  soul :  don't  blame  me  /" 

I  looked  at  the  book  on  the  table — the  book  that  he  had 
been  reading  when  I  entered  the  room.  These  sophistical 
confidences  of  his  were  nothing  but  Rousseau  at  second  hand. 
Good  !  If  he  talked  false  Rousseau,  nothing  was  left  for  mo 
but  to  talk  genuine  Pratolungo.  I  let  myself  go — I  was  just 
in  the  humor  for  it. 

"How  can  a  clever  man  like  you  impose  on  yourself  in 
that  way?"  I  said.  "Your  future  with  Lucilla!  You  have 
no  future  with  Lucilla  which  is  not  shocking  to  think  of. 
Suppose — you  shall  never  do  it  as  long  as  I  live — suppose 
you  married  her  ?  Good  Heavens !  what  a  miserable  life  it 
would  be  for  both  of  you  !  You  love  your  brother.  Do  you 
think  you  could  ever  really  know  a  moment's  peace,  with 
one  reflection  perpetually  forcing  itself  on  your  mind?  '1 
have  cheated  Oscar  out  of  the  woman  whom  he  loved;  1 
have  wasted  his  life ;  I  have  broken  his  heart.'  You  couldn't 
look  at  her,  you  couldn't  speak  to  her,  you  couldn't  touch 
her,  without  feeling  it  all  imbittered  by  that  horrible  re- 
proach. And  she  ?  What  sort  of  wife  would  she  make 
you  when  she  knew  how  you  had  got  her?  I  don't  know 
which  of  the  two  she  would  hate  most — you  or  herself.  Not 
a  man  would  pass  her  in  the  street  who  would  not  rouse  the 
thought  in  her,  '  I  wonder  whether  he  lias  ever  done  any 
thing  as  base  as  what  my  husband  has  done.'  Not  a  married 
woman  of  her  acquaintance  but  would  make  her  sick  at  heart 
with  envy  and  regret.  '  Whatever  faults  he  may  have,  your 
husband  hasn't  won  you  as  my  husband  won  me.'  You  hap 
py?  Your  married  life  endurable?  Come!  I  have  saved  a 
few  pounds  since  I  have  been  with  Lucilla:  I  will  lay  you 
every  farthing  I  possess  you  two  would  be  separated  by 
mutual  consent  before  you  had  been  six  months  man  and 
wife.  Now  which  will  you  do — will  you  s4urt  for  the  Conti- 

O 


314  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

nent  or  stay  here  ?  Will  you  bring  Oscar  back,  like  an  hon- 
orable man,  or  let  him  go,  and  disgrace  yourself  forever  ?" 

His  eyes  sparkled ;  his  color  rose.  He  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and  unlocked  the  door.  What  was  he  going  to  do?  To 
start  for  the  Continent,  or  to  turn  ine  out  of  the  house  ? 

He  called  to  the  servant. 

"James!" 

"Yes,  Sir?" 

"Make  the  house  fast  when  Madame  Pratolungo  and  I 
have  left  it.  I  am  not  coining  back  again." 

"  Sir !" 

"  Pack  my  portmanteau,  and  send  it  after  me  to-morrow, 
to  Nagle's  Hotel,  London." 

He  closed  the  door  again  and  came  back  to  me. 

"  You  refused  to  take  my  hand  when  you  came  in,"  he 
said.  "  Will  you  take  it  now  ?  I  leave  Browndown  when 
you  leave  it;  and  I  won't  come  back  again  till  I  bring  Os- 
car with  me." 

"  Both  hands  !"  I  exclaimed — and  took  him  by  both  hands. 
I  could  say  nothing  more.  I  could  only  wonder  whether  I 
Avas  waking  or  sleeping ;  fit  to  be  put  into  an  asylum,  or  fit 
to  go  at  large  ? 

O  ~ 

"  Come  !"  he  said.  "  I  will  see  you  as  far  as  the  rectory 
gate." 

"You  can't  go  to-night,"  I  answered.  "The  last  train 
has  left  hours  since." 

"I  can.  I  can  walk  to  Brighton,  and  get  a  bed  there, and 
leave  for  London  to-morrow  morning.  Nothing  will  induce 
me  to  pass  another  night  at  Browndown.  Stop  !  One  ques- 
tion before  I  put  the  lamp  out." 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  Did  you  do  any  thing  toward  tracing  Oscar  when  you 
were  in  London  to-day  ?" 

"I  went  to  a  lawyer,  and  made  what  arrangements  with 
him  I  could." 

"Here  is  my  pocket-book.  Write  me  down  his  name  and 
address." 

I  wrote  them.  He  extinguished  the  lamp,  and  led  me  into 
the  passage.  The  servant  was  standing  there,  bewildered. 
"  Good-night,  James.  I  am  going  to  bring  your  master  back 
to  Browndown."  With  that  explanation,  he  took  up  his  hat 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  315 

and  stick,  and  gave  me  his  arm.  The  moment  after,  we 
were  out  in  the  dark  valley,  on  our  way  to  the  village. 

On  the  walk  back  to  the  rectory  lie  talked  with  a  feverish 
volubility  and  excitement.  Avoiding  the  slightest  reference 
to  the  subject  discussed  at  our  strange  and  stormy  inter- 
view, he  returned,  with  tenfold  confidence  in  himself,  to  his 
old  boastful  assertion  of  the  great  things  he  was  going  to  do 
as  a  painter.  The  mission  which  called  him  to  reconcile 
Humanity  and  Nature;  the  superb  scale  on  which  he  pro- 
posed to  interpret  sympathetic  scenery  for  the  benefit  of  suf- 
fering mankind ;  the  prime  necessity  of  understanding  him, 
not  as  a  mere  painter,  but  as  Grand  Consoler  in  Art — I  had 
it  all  over  again,  by  way  of  satisfying  my  mind  as  to  his 
prospects  and  occupations  in  his  future  life.  It  was  only 
When  we  stopped  at  the  rectory  gate  that  he  referred  to 
what  had  passed  between  us — and  even  then  he  only  touch- 
ed on  the  subject  in  the  briefest  possible  way. 

"Well  ?"  he  said.  "Have  I  won  back  your  old  regard  for 
me?  Do  you  believe  there  is  a  fine  side  to  be  found  in  the 
nature  of  Nugent  Dubourg?  Man  is  a  compound  animal. 
You  are  a  woman  in  ten  thousand.  Give  me  a  kiss." 

He  kissed  me,  foreign  fashion,  on  both  cheeks. 

"Now  for  Oscar!"  he  shouted, cheerfully.  He  waved  his 
hat,  and  disappeared  in  the  darkness.  I  stood  at  the  gate 
till  the  last  rapid  pitpat  of  his  feet  died  away  in  the  silence 
of  the  night. 

An  indescribable  depression  seized  on  my  spirits.  I  be- 
gan to  doubt  him  again  the  instant  I  was  alone. 

"  Is  there  a  time  coming,"  I  asked  myself,  "  when  all  that 
I  have  done  to-night  must  be  done  over  again  ?" 

I  opened  the  rectory  gate.  Mr.  Finch  intercepted  me  be- 
fore I  could  get  round  to  our  side  of  the  house.  He  held  up 
before  me,  in  solemn  triumph,  a  manuscript  of  many  pages. 

"  My  Letter,"  he  said.  "  A  letter  of  Christian  remonstrance 
to  Nugent  Dubourg." 

"Nugent  Dubourg  has  left  Dimchurch." 

With  that  reply,  I  told  the  rector  in  as  few  words  as  pos- 
sible how  my  visit  to  Browndown  had  ended. 

Mr.  Finch  looked  at  his  letter.  All  those  pages  of  elo- 
quence written  for  nothing?  No!  In  the  nature  of  things 
that  could  not  possibly  be.  "You  have  done  very  well, 


316  POOI;  MISS  Fixcn. 

Madame  Pratolungo,"  he  remarked,  in  his  most  patronizing 
manner.  "Very  well  indeed,  all  things  considered.  l?ut,I 
don't  think  I  shall  act  wisely  if  I  destroy  this."  He  carefully 
k>cked  tip  his  manuscript,  and  turned  to  me  again  with  a  mys- 
terious smile.  "I  venture  to  think,"  said  Mr.  Finch,  with 
mock  humility,  "My  Letter  will  be  wanted.  Don't  let  me 
discourage  you  about  Nugent  Dubourg.  Only  let  me  say: 
Is  he  to  be  trusted  ?" 

It  was  said  by  a  fool;  it  would  never  have  been  said  at 
all  if  he  had  not  written  his  wonderful  letter.  Still  it  echoed 
with  a  painful  fidelity  the  misgiving  secretly  present  at  that 
moment  in  my  own  mind ;  and,  more  yet,  it  echoed  the  mis- 
giving in  Nugent's  mind — the  doubt  of  himself  which  his 
own  lips  had  confessed  to  me  in  so  many  words.  I  wished 
the  rector  good-night,  and  went  up  stairs. 

Lucilla  was  in  bed  and  asleep  when  I  softly  opened  her 
door. 

After  looking  for  a  while  at  her  lovely,  peaceful  face,  I 
was  obliged  to  turn  away.  It  was  time  I  left  the  bedside, 
when  the  sight  of  her  only  made  my  spirits  sink  lower  and 
lower.  As  I  cast  my  last  look  at  her  before  I  closed  the 
door,  Mr.  Finch's  ominous  question  forced  itself  on  me  again. 
In  spite  of  myself,  I  said  to  myself, 

"  Is  he  to  be  trusted  ?" 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-NINTH. 

SHE    LEAKXS   TO    SEE. 

WITH  the  new  morning  certain  reflections  found  their  way 
into  my  mind  which  were  not  of  the  most  welcome  sort. 
There  was  one  serious  element  of  embarrassment  in  my  posi- 
tion toward  Lucilla  which  had  not  discovered  itself  to  me 
when  Nugent  and  I  parted  at  the  rectory  gate. 

Browndown  was  now  empty.  In  the  absence  of  both  the 
brothers,  what  was  I  to  say  to  Lucilla  when  the  false  Oscar 
failed  to  pay  her  his  promised  visit  that  day  ? 

In  what  a  labyrinth  of  lies  had  the  first  fatal  suppression 
of  the  truth  involved  us  all !  One  deception  after  another 
had  been  forced  on  TIS;  one  disaster  after  another  had  follow- 
ed retributively  as  the  result — and,  now  that  I  was  left  to 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  319 

deal  single-handed  with  the  hard  necessities  of  our  position, 
no  choice  seemed  left  to  me  but  to  go  on  deceiving  Lucilla 
still !  I  was  weary  of  it  and  ashamed  of  it.  At  breakfast- 
time  I  evaded  all  further  discussion  of  the  subject  after  I  had 
first  ascertained  that  Lucilla  did  not  expect  her  visitor  before 
the  afternoon.  For  some  time  after  breakfast  I  kept  her  at 
the  piano.  When  she  wearied  of  music,  and  began  to  talk 
of  Oscar  once  more,  I  put  on  my  hat,  and  set  forth  on  a  do- 
mestic errand  (of  the  kind  usually  intrusted  to  Zillah),  solely 
for  the  purpose  of  keeping  out  of  the  way,  and  putting  off  to 
the  last  moment  the  hateful  necessity  of  telling  more  lies. 
The  weather  stood  my  friend.  It  threatened  to  rain;  and 
Lucilla,  on  that  account,  refrained  from  proposing  to  accom- 
pany me. 

My  errand  took  me  to  a  farm-house  on  the  road  which  led 
to  Brighton.  After  settling  my  business  I  prolonged  my 
walk,  though  the  rain  was  already  beginning  to  fall.  I  had 
nothing  on  me  that  would  spoil ;  and,  in  my  present  frame 
of  mind,  a  wet  gown  was  a  preferable  alternative  to  return- 
ing to  the  rectory. 

After  I  had  walked  about  a  mile  further  on,  the  solitude 
of  the  road  was  enlivened  by  the  appearance  of  an  open  car- 
riage approaching  me  from  the  direction  of  Brighton.  The 
hood  was  up  to  protect  the  person  inside  from  the  rain.  The 
person  looked  out  as  I  passed,  and  stopped  the  carriage  in  a 
voice  which  I  instantly  recognized  as  the  voice  of  Grosse. 
Our  gallant  oculist  insisted  (in  the  state  of  the  weather)  on 
my  instantly  taking  shelter  by  his  side,  and  returning  with 
him  to  the  house. 

"This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,"  I  said.  "  I  thought  you 
had  arranged  not  to  see  Lucilla  again  till  the  end  of  the 
week." 

Grosse's  eyes  glared  at  me  through  his  spectacles  with  u 
dignity  and  gravity  worthy  of  Mr.  Finch  himself. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  something  ?"  he  said.  "  You  see  sitting 
at  your  side  a  lost  surgeon-optic.  I  shall  die  soon.  Put  on 
my  tombs,  if  you  please,  The  malady  which  killed  this  Ger- 
man mans  was — Lofely  Feench.  When  I  am  away  from  her 
— gif  me  your  sympathies:  I  so  much  want  it — I  sweat  with 
anxiousness  for  young  miss.  Your  damn-mess-fix  about  those 
two  brodders  is  a  sort  of  perpetual  blisters  on  my  mind.  In- 


320  POOR   MISS  FINCH. 

stead  of  snoring  peaceably  all  night  in  my  nice  big  English 
bedt,  I  roll  wide  awake  on  my  pillows,  fidgeting  for  Feench. 
I  am  here  to-day  before  my  time.  For  what?  For  to  try 
her  eyes,  you  think?  Goot  madam,  you  think  wrong  !  It  is 
not  her  eyes  which  troubles  me.  Her  eyes  will  do.  It  is 
You — and  the  odders  at  your  rectory-place.  You  make  me 
nervous-anxious  about  my  patients.  I  am  afraid  some  of 
you  will  let  the  mess-fix  of  those  brodder-twins  find  its  way 
to  her  pretty  ears,  and  turn  her  poor  little  mind  topsy-turvies 
when  I  am  not  near  to  see  to  it  in  time.  Will  you  let  her  be 
comfortable -easy  for  two  months  more?  Ach  Gott!  if  I 
could  only  be  certain-sure  of  that,  I  might  leave  those  weak 
new  eyes  of  hers  to  cure  themselves,  and  go  my  ways  back 
to  London  again." 

I  had  intended  to  remonstrate  with  him  pretty  sharply  for 
taking  Lucilla  to  Browndown.  After  what  he  had  now  said 
it  was  useless  to  attempt  any  thing  of  that  sort — and  doubly 
useless  to  hope  that  he  would  let  me  extricate  myself  from 
my  difficulties  by  letting  me  tell  her  the  truth. 

"Of  course  you  are  the  best  judge,"  I  said.  "But  you 
little  know  what  these  precautions  of  yours  cost  the  unfor- 
tunate people  who  arc  left  to  carry  them  out." 

He  took  me  up  sharply  at  those  words. 

"  You  shall  see  for  your  own  self,"  he  said,  "  if  it  is  not 
worth  the  cost.  If  her  eyes  satisfy  me,  Feench  shall  learn  to 
see  to-day.  You  shall  stand  by,  you  obstinate  womans,  and 
judge  if  it  is  goot  to  add  shock  and  agitation  to  the  exhaus- 
tions and  irritabilities  and  bedevilments  of  all  sorts  which 
our  poor  miss  must  suffer  in  learning  to  see,  after  being  blind 
for  all  her  life.  No  more  of  it  now  till  we  get  to  the  rectory- 
place."  By  way  of  changing  the  subject  for  the  present,  he 
put  a  question  to  me  which  I  felt  it  necessary  to  answer  with 
some  caution.  "How  is  my  nice  boys? — my  bright-clever 
.Nugent  ?"  he  asked. 

"Very  well." 

There  I  stopped,  not  feeling  at  all  sure  of  the  ground  I 
was  treading  on. 

"Mind  this!"  Grosse  went  on.  "My  bright-boy-Nugent 
keeps  her  comfortable-easy.  My  bright-boy-Nugent  is  worth 
all  the  rest  of  you  togedder.  I  insist  on  his  making  his  vis- 
its to  young  miss  at  the  rectory-place,  in  spite  of  that  windy- 


POOR  MISS   FINCH.  321 

talky-puff-bag-Feench-father  of  hers.  I  say  positively — Nu- 
gent shall  come  into  the  house." 

There  was  no  help  for  it  now.  I  was  obliged  to  tell  him 
that  Nugent  had  left  Browndown,  and  that  I  was  the  person 
who  had  sent  him  away. 

For  a  moment  I  was  really  in  doubt  whether  the  skilled 
hand  of  the  great  surgeon  would  not  be  ignobly  employed  in 
boxing  my  cars.  No  perversion  of  spelling  can  possibly  re- 
port the  complicated  German -English  jargon  in  which  his 
fury  poured  itself  out  on  my  devoted  head.  Let  it  be  enough 
to  say  that  he  declared  Nugent's  abominable  personation  of 
his  brother  to  be  vitally  important — so  long  as  Oscar  was 
absent — to  his  successful  treatment  of  the  sensitive  and  ex- 
citable patient  whom  we  had  placed  under  his  care.  I  vainly 
assured  him  that  Nugent's  object  in  leaving  Dimchurch  was  to 
set  matters  right  again  in  bringing  his  brother  back.  Grosse 
flatly  declined  to  allow  himself  to  be  influenced  by  any  spec- 
ulative consideration  of  that  sort.  He  said  (and  swore)  that 
my  meddling  had  raised  a  serious  obstacle  in  his  way,  and 
that  nothing  but  his  own  tender  regard  for  Lucilla  prevented 
him  from  turning  "the  coachmans  back,"  and  leaving  us 
henceforth  to  shift  for  ourselves. 

When  we  reached  the  rectory  gate  he  had  cooled  a  little. 
As  we  crossed  the  garden  he  reminded  me  that  I  stood 
pledged  to  be  present  when  the  bandage  was  taken  off. 

"Now  mind!"  he  said.  "You  are  going  to  see  if  it  is 
goot  or  bad  to  tell  her  that  she  has  had  those  nice  white  arms 
of  hers  round  the  wrong  brodder.  You  are  going  to  tell  me 

o  o  o 

afterward  if  you  dare  to  say  to  her,  in  plain  English  words, 
'  Blue-Face  is  the  man.' " 

We  found  Lucilla  in  the  sitting-room.  Grosse  briefly  in- 
formed her  that  he  had  nothing  particular  to  occupy  him  in 
London,  and  that  he  had  advanced  the  date  of  his  visit  on 
that  account.  "You  want  something  to  do,  my  lofe,  on  tin's 
soaky-rainy  day.  Show  Papa-Grosse  what  you  can  do  with 
your  eyes,  now  you  have  got  them  back  again."  With  those 
words  he  unfastened  the  bandage,  and,  taking  her  by  the 
chin,  examined  her  eyes — first  without  his  magnifying  glass; 
then  with  it. 

"Am  I  going  on  well?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Famous-well !  You  go  on  (as  my  uoot  friends  sav  in 

O  2 


322  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

America)  first-class.  Now  use  your  eyes  for  yourself.  Gif 
one  lofing  look  to  Grosse  first.  Then — see  !  see  !  see !" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke  to  her. 
He  Avas  not  only  satisfied  about  her  eyes — he  was  triumphant. 
"  Soh  !"  he  grunted,  turning  to  me.  "  Why  is  Mr.  Sebrights 
not  here  to  look  at  this  ?" 

I  eagerly  approached  Lucilla.  There  was  still  a  little  dim- 
ness left  in  her  eyes.  I  noticed  also  that  they  moved  to  and 
fro  restlessly,  and  (at  times)  wildly.  But,  oh,  the  bright 
change  in  her !  the  new  life  of  beauty  which  the  new  sense 
had  bestowed  on  her  already  !  Her  smile,  always  charming, 
now  caught  light  from  her  eyes,  and  spread  its  gentle  fasci- 
nation over  all  her  face.  It  was  impossible  not  to  long  to 
kiss  her.  I  advanced  to  congratulate,  to  embrace  her.  Grosse 
stepped  forward,  and  checked  me. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  Walk  your  ways  to  the  odder  end  of 
the  rooms,  and  let  us  see  if  she  can  go  to  you.'1'' 

Like  all  other  people  knowing  no  more  of  the  subject  than 
I  knew,  I  had  no  idea  of  the  pitiably  helpless  manner  in 
which  the  restored  sense  of  sight  struggles  to  assert  itself  in 
persons  who  have  been  blind  for  life.  In  such  cases  the  effort 
of  the  eyes  that  are  first  learning  to  see  is  like  the  effort  of 
the  limbs  when  a  child  is  first  learning  to  walk.  But  for 
Grosse's  odd  way  of  taking  it,  the  scene  which  I  was  now  to 
witness  would  have  been  painful  in  the  last  degree.  My 
poor  Lucilla — instead  of  filling  me  with  joy,  as  I  had  antici- 
pated—  would,  I  really  believe,  have  wrung  my  heart,  and 
have  made  me  burst  out  crying. 

"  Now !"  said  Grosse,  laying  one  hand  on  Lucilla's  arm, 
while  he  pointed  to  me  with  the  other.  "  There  she  stands. 
Can  you  go  to  her?" 

"  Of  course  I  can  !" 

"  I  lay  you  a  bet-wager  yon  can  not.  Ten  thausand  pounds 
to  six  pennies.  Done-done.  Now  try  !" 

She  answered  by  a  little  gesture  of  defiance,  and  took  three 
hasty  steps  forward.  Bewildered  and  frightened,  she  stopped 
suddenly,  at  the  third  step,  before  she  had  advanced  half  the 
way  from  her  end  of  the  room  to  mine. 

"I  saw  her  here,"  she  said,  pointing  down  to  the  spot  on 
which  she  was  standing,  and  appealing  piteously  to  Grosse. 
"I  see  her  now,  and  I  don't  know  where  she  is!  She  is  so 


POOR  MISS  FINCH.  323 

near,  I  feel  as  if  she  touched  my  eyes — and  yet"  (she  ad- 
vanced another  step,  and  clutched  with  her  hands  at  the 
empty  air) — "  and  yet  I  can't  get  near  enough  to  take  hold 
of  her.  Oh  !  what  does  it  mean  ?  what  does  it  mean  ?" 

"It  means — pay  me  my  six  pennies!"  said  Grosse.  "The 
wager-bet  is  mine  !" 

She  resented  his  laughing  at  her  with  an  obstinate  shake 
of  her  head,  and  an  angry  knitting  of  her  pretty  eyebrows. 

"  Wait  a  little,"  she  said.  "  You  sha'n't  win  quite  so  eas- 
ily as  that.  I  will  get  to  her  yet !" 

She  came  straight  to  me  in  a  moment — just  as  easily  as  I 
could  have  gone  to  her  myself  if  I  had  tried. 

"  Another  wager-bet !"  cried  Grosse,  still  standing  behind 
her,  and  calling  to  me.  Twenty  thausand  pounds  this  time  to 
a  four-pennies-bit.  She  has  shut  her  eyes  to  get  to  you.  Hey?" 

It  was  true — she  had  blindfolded  herself!  With  her  eyes 
closed  she  could  measure  to  a  hair's  breadth  the  distance 
which,  with  her  eyes. opened, she  was  perfectly  incompetent 
to  calculate  !  Detected  by  both  of  us,  she  sat  down,  poor 
dear,  with  a  sigh  of  despair.  "  Was  it  worth  while,"  she  said 
to  me  sadly,  "  to  go  through  the  operation  for  this?" 

Grosse  joined  us  at  our  end  of  the  room. 

"  All  in  goot  time,"  he  said.  "  Patience,  and  these  helpless 
eyes  of  yours  will  learn.  Soh  !  I  shall  begin  to  teach  them 
now.  You  have  got  your  own  notions — hey  ? — about  this 
colors  and  that?  When  you  were  blind  did  you  think  what 
would  be  your  favorite  colors  if  you  could  see?  You  did? 
Which  colors  is  it?  Tell  me.  Come  !" 

"  White  first,"  she  answered.     "Then  scarlet." 

Grosse  paused  and  considered. 

"  White  I  understand,"  he  said.  "  White  is  the  fancy  of  a 
young  girls.  But  why  scarlets?  Could  you  see  scarlets 
when  you  were  blind?" 

"Almost,"  she  answered,  "if  it  was  bright  enough.  I  used 
to  feel  something  pass  before  my  eyes  when  scarlet  was  shown 
to  me." 

"In  these  cataracts-cases  it  is  constantly  scarlets  that  they 
almost  see,"  muttered  Grosse  to  himself.  "There  must  be 
reason  for  this — and  I  must  find  him."  He  went  on  with  his 
questions  to  Lucilla.  "And  the  colors  you  hate  most— '-• 
which  is  he?" 


324  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

"Black." 

Grosse  nodded  his  head  approvingly.  "  I  thought  so,"  ho 
said.  "It  is  always  black  that  they  hate.  For  this  also 
there  must  be  reason — and  I  must  find  him." 

Having  expressed  that  resolution,  he  approached  the  writ- 
ing-table, and  took  a  sheet  of  paper  out  of  the  case,  and  a 
circular  pen-wiper  of  scarlet  cloth  out  of  the  inkstand.  After 
that  he  looked  about  him,  waddled  back  to  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  and  fetched  the  black  felt  hat  in  which  he  had 
traveled  from  London.  He  ranged  the  hat,  the  paper,  and 
the  pen-wiper  in  a  row.  Before  he  could  put  his  next  question 
to  her  she  pointed  to  the  hat  with  a  gesture  of  disapproval. 

"  Take  it  away,"  she  said.     "  I  don't  like  that." 

Grosse  stopped  me  before  I  could  speak. 

"Wait  a  little,"  he  whispered  in  my  ear.  "It  is  not  quite 
so  wonderful  as  you  think.  These  blind  peoples,  when  they 
first  see,  have  all  alike  the  same  hatred  of  any  thing  what  is 
dark."  He  turned  to  Lucilla.  "  Say,"  he  asked,  "  is  yoty 
favorite  colors  among  these  things  here  ?" 

She  passed  by  the  hat  in  contempt ;  looked  at  the  pen- 
wiper, and  put  it  down ;  looked  at  the  sheet  of  paper,  and  put 
it  down ;  hesitated — and  again  shut  her  eyes. 

"  No !"  cried  Grosse.  "  I  won't  have  it !  How  dare  you 
blind  yourself  in  the  presence  of  Me?  What!  I  give  you 
back  your  sights,  and  you  go  shut  your  eyes.  Open  them — 
or  I  will  put  you  in  the  corner  like  a  naughty  girls.  Your 
favorite  colors  ?  Now,  now,  now  !" 

She  opened  her  eyes  (very  unwillingly),  and  looked  once 
more  at  the  pen-wiper  and  the  paper. 

"  I  see  nothing  as  bright  as  my  favorite  colors  here,"  she 
said. 

Grosse  held  up  the  sheet  of  paper,  and  pressed  the  question 
without  mercy. 

"  What !    Is  white  whiter  than  this  ?" 

"  Fifty  thousand  times  whiter  than  that !" 

"  Goot.  Now  mind  !  This  paper  is  white."  (He  snatched 
her  handkerchief  out  of  her  apron-pocket.)  "  This  handker- 
chief is  white  too;  whitest  of  the  white,  both  of  them.  First 
lesson,  my  lofe !  Here  in  my  hands  is  your  favorite  colors, 
in  the  time  when  you  were  blind." 

"  ThoseT"1   she  exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  paper  and  the 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  327 

handkerchief,  with  a  look  of  blank  disappointment  as  he 
dropped  them  on  the  table.  She  turned  over  the  pen-wiper 
and  the  hat,  and  looked  round  at  me.  G rosso,  waiting  to  try 
another  experiment,  left  it  to  me  to  answer.  The  result,  in 
both  cases,  was  the  same  as  in  the  cases  of  the  sheet  of  paper 
and  the  handkerchief.  Scarlet  was  not  half  as  red  —  black 
not  one-hundredth  part  as  black — as  her  imagination  had  fig- 
ured them  to  her  in  the  days  when  she  was  blind.  Still,  as 
to  this  last  color — as  to  black — she  could  feel  some  little  en- 
couragement. It  had  affected  her  disagreeably  (just  as  poor 
Oscar's  face  had  affected  her),  though  she  had  not  actually 
known  it  for  the  color  that  she  disliked.  She  made  an  effort, 
poor  child,  to  assert  herself  against  her  merciless  surgeon- 
teacher.  "I  didn't  know  it  was  black,"  she  said;  "but  I 
hated  the  sight  of  it,  for  all  that." 

She  tried,  as  she  spoke,  to  toss  the  hat  onto  a  chair  stand- 
ing close  by  her,  and  threw  it  instead  high  above  the  back 
of  the  chair,  against  the  wall,  at  least  six  feet  away  from  the 
object  at  which  she  had  aimed.  "  I  am  a  helpless  fool !"  she 
burst  out,  her  face  flushing  crimson  with  mortification. 
"Don't  let  Oscar  see  me  !  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  mak- 
ing myself  ridiculous  before  him!  He  is  coming  here,"  she 
added,  turning  to  me  entreatingly.  "  Manage  to  make  some 
excuse  for  his  not  seeing  me  till  later  in  the  day." 

I  promised  to  find  the  excuse — all  the  more  readily,  that  I 
now  saw  an  unexpected  chance  of  reconciling  her  in  some 
dvgree  (so  long  as  she  was  learning  to  see)  to  the  blank  pro- 
duced in  her  life  by  Oscar's  absence. 

She  addressed  herself  again  to  Grosse. 

"Go  on  !"  she  said,  impatiently.  "Teach  me  to  be  some- 
thing  better  than  an  idiot — or  put  the  bandage  on  and  blind 
me  again.  My  eyes  are  of  no  use  to  me!  Do  you  hear?" 
she  cried,  furiously,  taking  him  by  his  broad  shoulders  and 
shaking  him  with  all  her  might — "my  eyes  arc  of  no  use  to 
me!" 

"  Now  !  now  !  now  !"  cried  Grosse.  "  If  you  don't  keep 
your  tempers,  you  little  spitfire,  I  will  teach  you  nothing." 
He  took  up  the  sheet  of  paper  and  the  pen-wiper;  and,  forc- 
ing her  to  sit  down,  placed  them  together  before  her,  in  her 
lap. 

"Do  you  know  one  thing?"  he  went  on.     "Do  you  know 


328  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

what  is  meant  by  an  objects  which  is  square  ?  Do  you  know 
what  is  meant  by  an  objects  which  is  round?" 

Instead  of  answering  him,  she  appealed  indignantly  to  my 
opinion. 

"Is  it  not  monstrous,"  she  asked,  "to  hear  him  put  such  a 
question  to  me  as  that  ?  Do  I  know  round  from  square  ? 
Oh,  how  cruelly  humiliating  !  Don't  tell  Oscar !  don't  tell 
Oscar !" 

.  "  If  you  know,"  persisted  Grosse, "  you  can  tell  me.  Look 
at  those  two  things  in  your  lap.  Are  they  both  round  or 
both  square?  or  is  one  round  and  the  odder  square?  Look 
now,  and  tell  me." 

She  looked — and  said  nothing. 

"  Well  ?"  continued  Grosse. 

"You  put  me  out,  standing  there  staring  at  me  through 
your  horrid  spectacles  !"  she  said,  irritably.  "  Don't  look  at 
me,  and  I  will  tell  you  directly." 

Grosse  turned  his  head  my  way,  with  his  diabolical  grin; 
and  signed  to  me  to  keep  watch  on  her  in  his  place. 

The  instant  his  back  was  turned,  she  shut  her  eyes,  and 
ran  over  the  paper  and  the  pen-wiper  with  the  tips  of  her 
fingers ! 

"One  is  round,  and  one  is  square,"  she  answered,  cunningly 
opening  her  eyes  again,  just  in  time  to  bear  critical  inspection 
when  Grosse  turned  round  toward  her  once  more. 

He  took  the  paper  and  the  pen-wiper  out  of  her  hands ; 
and  (thoroughly  understanding  the  trick  she  had  played  him) 
changed  them  for  a  bronze  saucer  and  a  book.  "  Which  is 
round  and  which  is  square  of  these?"  he  asked,  holding  them 
up  before  her. 

She  looked  first  at  one,  and  then  at  the  other — plainly  in- 
capable (with  only  her  eyes  to  help  her)  of  answering  the 
question. 

"I  put  you  out — don't  I?"  said  Grosse.  "You  can't  shut 
your  eyes,  my  lofely  Feench,  while  I  am  looking — can  you?" 

She  turned  red,  then  pale  again.  I  began  to  be  afraid  she 
would  burst  out  crying.  Grosse  managed  her  to  perfection. 
The  tact  of  this  rough,  ugly,  eccentric  old  man  was  the  most 
perfect  tact  I  have  ever  met  with. 

"Shut  your  eyes,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "It  is  the  right 
ways  to  learn.  Shut  your  eyes,  and  take  them  in  your  hands. 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  329 

and  tell  me  which  is  round  and  which  is  square  in  that  way 
first." 

She  told  him  directly. 

"Goot!  now  open  your  eyes,  and  see  for  yourself  it  is  the 
saucers  you  have  got  in  your  right  hand,  and  the  books  you 
have  got  in  your  left.  You  see?  Goot  again?  Put  them 
back  on  the  table  now.  What  shall  we  do  next?" 

"May  I  try  if  I  can  write?"  she  asked,  eagerly.  "I  do  so 
want  to  see  if  I  can  write  with  my  eyes  instead  of  my  fin- 
ger!" 

"No!  Ten  thausand  times  no!  I  forbid  reading;  I  for- 
bid writing,  yet.  Corne  with  me  to  the  window.  How  do 
these  most  troublesome  eyes  of  yours  do  at  a  distance?" 

While  we  had  been  trying  our  experiment  with  Lucilla  the 
weather  had  brightened  again.  The  clouds  were  parting; 
the  sun  was  coming  out;  the  bright  gaps  of  blue  in  the  sky 
were  widening  every  moment;  the  shadows  were  traveling 
grandly  over  the  windy  slopes  of  the  hills.  Lucilla  lifted 
her  hands  in  speechless  admiration  as  the  German  threw  open 
the  window,  and  placed  her  face  to  face  with  the  view. 

"Oli!"  she  exclaimed, "don't  speak  to  me!  don't  touch  me! 
— let  me  enjoy  it !  There  is  no  disappointment  here.  I  have 
never  thought,  I  have  never  dreamed,  of  any  thing  half  so 
beautiful  as  this  /" 

Grosse  looked  at  me,  and  silently  pointed  to  her.  She  had 
turned  pale — she  was  trembling  in  every  limb,  overwhelmed 
by  her  own  ecstatic  sense  of  the  glory  of  the  sky  and  the 
beauty  of  the  earth,  as  they  now  met  her  view  for  the  first 
time.  I  penetrated  the  surgeon's  object  in  directing  my  at- 
tention to  her.  "See"  (he  meant  to  say), "what  a  delicate- 
ly organized  creature  we  have  to  deal  with !  Is  it  possible 
to  be  too  careful  in  handling  such  a  sensitive  temperament 
as  that?"  Understanding  him  only  too  well,  I  also  trembled 
when  I  thought  of  the  future.  Every  thing  now  depended  on 
Nugent.  And  Nugent's  own  lips  had  told  me  that  he  could 
not  depend  on  himself! 

It  was  a  relief  to  me  when  Grosse  interrupted  her. 

She  pleaded  hard  to  be  allowed  to  stay  at  the  window 
a  little  longer.  He  refused  to  allow  it.  Upon  that  she  flew 
instantly  into  the  opposite  extreme.  "I  am  in  my  own 
room,  and  I  am  my  own  mistress,"  she  said,  angrily;  "I 


3.10  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

insist  on  having  ray  own  way."  Grosse  was  ready  with  his 
answer. 

"Take  your  own  ways;  fatigue  those  weak  new  eyes  of 
yours,  and  to-morrow,  when  you  try  to  look  out  of  window, 
you  will  not  be  able  to  see  at  all."  This  reply  terrified  her 
into  instant  submission.  She  assisted  in  replacing  the  band- 
age with  her  own  hands.  "  May  I  go  away  to  my  own  room  ?" 
she  asked,  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child.  "I  have  seen  such 
beautiful  sights — and  I  do  so  want  to  think  of  them  by  myself." 

The  medical  adviser  instantly  granted  the  patient's  re- 
quest. Any  proceeding  which  tended  to  compose  her  was  a 
proceeding  of  which  he  highly  approved. 

"If  Oscar  comes,"  she  whispered,  as  she  passed  me  on  her 
way  to  the  door,  "mind  I  hear  of  it,  and  mind  you  don't  tell 
him  of  the  mistakes  I  have  made."  She  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment, thinking.  "  I  don't  understand  myself,"  she  said.  "I 
never  was  so  happy  in  my  life.  And  yet  I  feel  almost  ready 
to  cry !"  She  turned  toward  Grosse.  "Come  here,  papa. 
You  have  been  very  good  to  me  to-day.  I  will  give  you  a 
kiss."  She  laid  her  hands  lightly  on  his  shoulders,  kissed  his 
lined  and  wrinkled  cheek,  gave  me  a  little  squeeze  round  the 
waist — and  left  us.  Grosse  turned  sharply  to  the  window, 
and  used  his  huge  silk  handkerchief  for  a  purpose  to  which 
(I  suspect)  it  had  not  been  put  for  many  a  long  year  past. 


CHAPTER  THE  FORTIETH. 

TRACES  OF  NUGENT. 

"  MADAME  PRATOI.UNGO  !" 

"  Herr  Grosse  ?" 

He  put  his  handkerchief  back  into  his  pocket,  and  turned 
to  me  from  the  window  with  his  face  composed  again,  and  his 
tea-caddy  snuff-box  in  his  hand. 

"Now  you  have  seen  for  your  own  self,"  he  said,  with  an 
emphatic  rap  on  the  box,  "do  you  dare  tell  that  sweet  girls 
which  of  them  it  is  that  has  gone  his  ways  and  left  her  for- 
ever?" 

It  is  not  easy  to  find  a  limit  to  the  obstinacy  of  women — 
when  men  expect  them  to  acknowledge  themselves  to  have 
been  wrong.  After  what  I  had  seen,  I  no  more  dared  tell 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  331 

her  than  he  did.  I  was  only  too  obstinate  to  acknowledge  it 
to  him — just  yet. 

"Mind  this  !"  he  went  on.  "  Whether  you  shake  her  with 
frights,  or  whether  you  heat  her  with  rages,  or  whether  you 
wound  her  with  griefs — it  all  goes  straight  the  same  to  those 
weak  new  eyes  of  hers.  They  are  so  weak  and  so  new,  that 
I  must  ask  once  more  for  my  bedt  here  to-night,  for  to  see  to- 
morrow if  I  have  not  already  tried  them  too  much.  Now, 
for  the  last  time  of  asking,  have  you  got  the  abominable 
courage  in  you  to  tell  her  the  truth  ?" 

He  had  found  my  limit  at  last.  I  was  obliged  to  own 
(heartily  as  I  disliked  doing  it)  that  there  was,  for  the  pres- 
ent, no  choice  left  but  mercifully  to  conceal  the  truth.  Hav- 
ing gone  this  length,  I  next  attempted  to  consult  him  as  to 
the  safest  manner  in  which  I  could  account  to  Lucilla  for 
Oscar's  absence.  He  refused  (as  a  man)  to  recognize  the 
slightest  necessity  for  giving  me  (as  a  woman)  any  advice  on 
a  question  of  evasions  and  excuses.  "  I  have  not  lived  all 
my  years  in  the  world  without  learning  something,"  he  said. 
"When  it  comes  to  walking  upon  egg-shells  and  telling  fips, 
the  womens  have  nothing  to  learn  from  the  mens. — Will  you 
take  a  little  stroll-walk  with  me  in  the  garden?  I  have  one 
odder  thing  to  say  to  you  ;  and  I  am  hungry  and  thirsty  both 
togedder— for  This." 

He  produced  "This,"  in  the  form  of  his  pipe.  We  left  the 
room  at  once  for  our  stroll  in  the  garden. 

Having  solaced  himself  with  his  first  mouthful  of  tobacco- 

O 

smoke,  he  startled  me  by  announcing  that  he  meant  to  re- 
move Lucilla  forthwith  from  Dirnchurch  to  the  sea-side.  In 
doing  this  he  was  actuated  by  two  motives — first,  the  med- 
ical motive  of  strengthening  her  constitution;  second,  the 
personal  motive  of  preserving  her  from  making  painful  dis- 
coveries by  placing  her  out  of  reach  of  the  gossip  of  the  rec- 
tory and  the  village.  Grosse  had  the  lowest  opinion  of  Mr. 
Finch  and  his  household.  His  dislike  and  distrust  of  the  rec- 
tor, in  particular,  knew  no  bounds :  he  characterized  the  Pope 
of  Dirnchurch  as  an  Ape  with  a  long  tongue  and  a  man-and- 
monkey  capacity  for  doing  mischief.  Ramsgate  was  the  wa- 
tering-place which  he  had  fixed  on.  It  was  at  a  safe  distance 
from  Dimchurch  ;  and  it  was  near  enough  to  London  to  en- 
able him  to  visit  Lucilla  frequently.  The  one  thing  needed 


332  POOR   MISS    FINCH.     • 

was  my  co-operation  in  the  new  plan.  If  I  was  at  liberty  to 
take  charge  ofLucilla,  he  would  speak  to  the  Ape  with  the 
long  tongue ;  and  we  might  start  for  Ramsgate  before  the 
end  of  the  week. 

Was  there  any  thing  to  prevent  me  from  carrying  out  the 
arrangement  proposed  ? 

There  was  nothing  to  prevent  me.  My  one  other  anxiety 
apart  from  Lucilla — anxiety'  about  good  Papa — had  now,  for 
some  time,  been  happily  set  at  rest.  Letter  after  letter  from 
my  sister  in  France  brought  me  always  the  same  cheering 
news.  My  evergreen  parent  had  at  last  discovered  that  he 
was  no  longer  in  the  first  bloom  of  his  youth.  He  had  re- 
signed to  his  juniors,  with  pathetic  expressions  of  regret,  the 
making  of  love  and  the  fighting  of  duels.  Ravaged  by  past 
passions,  this  dear  innocent  had  now  found  a  refuge  from 
swords,  pistols,  and  the  sex  in  collecting  butterflies  and  play- 
ing on  the  guitar.  I  was  free  wholly  to  devote  myself  to 
Lucilla,  and  I  honestly  rejoiced  in  the  prospect  before  me. 
Alone  with  her,  and  away  from  the  rectory  (where  there  was 
always  danger  of  gossip  reaching  her  ears),  I  could  rely  on 
myself  to  protect  her  from  harm  in  the  present,  and  to  pre- 
serve her  for  Oscar  in  the  future.  With  all  my  heart  I  agreed 
to  the  arrangements  as  Grosse  proposed  them.  When  we 
parted  in  the  garden,  he  went  round  to  the  rector's  side  of 
the  house  to  announce  (in  his  medical  capacity)  the  decision 
at  which  he  had  arrived ;  while  I,  on  my  side,  went  back  to 
Lucilla  to  make  the  best  excuses  that  I  could  invent  for  Os- 
car, and  to  prepare  her  for  our  speedy  removal  from  Dim- 
church. 

"  Gone,  without  coming  to  say  good-by  !  Gone,  without 
even  writing  to  me  !" 

There  was  the  first  impression  I  produced  on  her,  when  I 
had  done  my  best  to  account  harmlessly  for  Oscar's  absence. 
I  had,  as  I  thought,  taken  the  shortest  and  simplest  way  out 
of  the  difficulty  by  merely  inverting  the  truth.  In  other 
words,  by  telling  her  that  Nugent  had  got  into  some  serious 
embarrassment  abroad,  and  that  Oscar  had  been  called  away 
at  a  moment's  notice  to  follow  him  and  help  him.  It  was  in 
vain  that  I  reminded  her  of  Oscar's  well-known  horror  of 
leave-takings  of  all  kinds;  in  vain  that  I  represented  the  ur- 


POOR   MISS    FIXCH.  333 

gency  of  the  matter  as  leaving  him  no  alternative  but  to  con- 
fide his  excuses  and  his  farewells  to  me;  in  vain  I  promised 
for  him  that  he  would  write  to  her  at  the  first  opportunity. 
She  listened,  without  conviction.  The  more  perseveringly  I 
tried  to  account  for  it,  the  more  perseveringly  she  dwelt  on 
Oscar's  unaccountable  disregard  of  her  claims  on  his  con- 
sideration for  her.  As  for  our  journey  to  Kamsgate,  it  was 
impossible  to  interest  her  in  the  subject.  I  gave  it  up  in  de- 
spair. 

"Surely  Oscar  has  left  some  address  at  which  I  can  write 
to  him?"  she  said. 

I  could  only  answer  that  he  was  not  sure  enough  of  his 
movements  to  be  able  to  do  that  before  lie  went  away. 

"It  is  more  provoking  than  you  think,"  she  went  on.  "I 
believe  Oscar  is  afraid  to  bring  his  unfortunate  brother  into 
my  presence.  The  blue  face  startled  me  when  I  saw  it,  I  know. 
But  I  have  quite  got  over  that.  I  feel  none  of  the  absurd 
terror  of  the  poor  man  which  I  felt  when  I  was  blind.  Now 
that  I  have  seen  for  myself  what  he  is  really  like,  I  can  feel 
for  him.  I  wanted  to  tell  Oscar  this — I  wanted  to  say  that 
he  might  bring  his  brother  to  live  with  us  if  he  liked  —  I 
wanted  to  prevent  (just  what  has  happened)  his  going  away 
from  me  when  he  wishes  to  see  his  brother.  You  are  using 
me  very  hardly  among  you ;  and  I  have  some  reason  to  com- 
plain of  it." 

While  she  was  talking  in  this  mortifying  manner,  I  feit 
some  consolation  nevertheless.  Oscar's  disfigured  complex- 
ion would  not  be  the  terrible  obstacle  in  the  way  of  his  res- 
toration to  Lucilla  that  I  had  feared.  All  the  comfort  which 
this  reflection  could  give  I  wanted  badly  enough.  There  was 
no  open  hostility  toward  me  on  Lucilla's  part,  but  there  was 
a  coolness  which  I  found  more  distressing  to  bear  than  hos- 
tility itself. 

I  breakfasted  in  bed  the  next  morning,  and  only  rose  to- 
ward noon — just  in  time  to  say  good-by  to  Grosse  before  he 
returned  to  London. 

He  was  in  high  good  spirits  about  his  patient.  Her  eyes 
were  the  better  instead  of  the  worse  for  the  exertion  to  which 
he  had  subjected  them  on  the  previous  day.  The  bracing 
air  of  Kamsgate  was  all  that  was  wanting  to  complete  the 
success  of  the  operation.  Mr.  Finch  had  started  objections,  all 


334  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

turning  on  the  question  of  expense.  But  with  a  daughter  who 
was  her  own  mistress,  and  who  had  her  own  fortune,  his  ob- 
jections mattered  nothing.  By  the  next  day,  or  the  day  after 
at  latest,  we  were  to  start  for  Ramsgate.  I  promised  to  write 
to  our  good  surgeon  as  soon  as  we  were  established ;  and  he 
engaged,  on  his  side,  to  visit  us  immediately  after.  "  Let  her 
use  her  eyes  for  two  goot  hours  every  day,"  said  Grosse,  at 
parting.  "  She  may  do  what  she  likes  with  them,  except  that 
she  must  not  peep  into  books  or  take  up  pens,  till  I  come  to 
you  at  Ramsgate.  It  is  most  wonderful-beautiful  to  see  how 
those  new  eyes  of  hers  do  get  along.  When  I  next  meet  goot 
Mr.  Sebrights — hey  !  how  I  shall  cock-crow  over  that  spick- 
span-respectable  man  !" 

I  felt  a  little  nervous  as  to  how  the  day  would  pass,  when 
the  German  left  me  alone  with  Lucilla. 

To  my  amazement,  she  not  only  met  me  with  the  needful 
excuses  for  her  behavior  on  the  previous  day,  but  showed 
herself  to  be  perfectly  resigned  to  the  temporary  loss  of  Os- 
car's society.  It  was  she  (not  I)  who  remarked  that  he  could 
not  have  chosen  a  better  time  for  being  away  from  her  than 
the  humiliating  time  when  she  was  learning  to  distinguish 
between  round  and  square.  It  was  she  (not  I)  who  welcomed 
the  little  journey  to  Ramsgate  as  a  pleasant  change  in  her 
dull  life  which  would  help  to  reconcile  her  to  Oscar's  absence. 
In  brief,  if  she  had  actually  received  a  letter  from  Oscar,  re- 
lieving her  of  all  anxiety  about  him,  her  words  and  looks 
could  hardly  have  offered  a  completer  contrast  than  they  now 
showed  to  her  words  and  looks  of  the  previous  day. 

If  I  had  noticed  no  other  alteration  in  her  than  this  wel- 
come change  for  the  better,  my  record  of  the  day  would  have 
ended  here  as  the  record  of  unmixed  happiness. 

But,  I  grieve  to  say,  I  have  something  unpleasant  to  add. 
While  she  was  making  her  excuses  to  me,  and  speaking  in 
the  sensible  and  satisfactory  terms  which  I  have  just  repeat- 
ed, I  noticed  a  curious  underlying  embarrassment  in  her  man- 
ner, entirely  unlike  any  previous  embarrassment  which  had 
ever  intruded  itself  between  us.  And,  stranger  still,  on  the 
first  occasion  when  Zillah  came  into  the  room  while  I  was  in 
it,  I  observed  that  Lucilla's  embarrassment  was  reflected 
(when  the  old  woman  spoke  to  me)  in  the  face  and  manner 
of  Lucilla's  nurse. 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  335 

But  one  conclusion  could  possibly  follow  from  what  I  saw  : 
they  were  both  concealing  something  from  me,  and  they  were 
both  more  or  less  ashamed  of  what  they  were  doing. 

Somewhere — not  very  far  back  in  these  pages — I  have  said 
of  myself  that  I  am  not  by  nature  a  woman  who  is  easily 
ready  to  suspect  others.  On  this  very  account,  when  I  find 
suspicion  absolutely  forced  on  me — as  it  was  now — I  am  apt 
to  fly  into  the  opposite  extreme.  In  the  present  case,  I  fixed 
on  the  person  to  suspect — all  the  more  readily  from  having 
been  slow  to  suspect  him  in  by-gone  days.  "In  some  way 
or  other,"  I  said  to  myself, "Nugent  Dubourg  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  this.'* 

Was  he  communicating  with  her  privately,  in  the  name 
and  in  the  character  of  Oscar? 

The  bare  idea  of  it  hurried  me  headlong  into  letting  her 
know  that  I  had  noticed  the  change  in  her. 

"  Lucilla  !"  I  said.     "  Has  any  thing  happened  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked, coldly. 

"  I  fancy  I  see  some  change — "  I  began. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  she  answered,  walking  away 
from  me  as  she  spoke. 

I  said  no  more.  If  our  intimacy  had  been  less  close  and 
less  affectionate,  I  might  have  openly  avowed  to  her  what 
was  passing  in  my  mind.  But  how  could  I  say  to  Lucilla, 
You  are  deceiving  me?  It  would  have  been  the  end  of  our 
sisterhood — the  end  of  our  friendship.  When  confidence  is 
withdrawn  between  two  people  who  love  each  other,  every 
thing  is  withdrawn.  They  are  on  the  footing  of  strangers 
from  that  moment,  and  must  stand  on  ceremony.  Delicate 
minds  will  understand  why  I  accepted  the  check  she  had  ad- 
ministered to  me,  and  said  no  more. 

I  went  into  the  village  alone.  Managing  matters  so  as  to 
excite  no  surprise,  I  contrived  to  have  a  little  gossip  about 
Nugent  with  Gootheridge  at  the  inn,  and  with  the  servant  at 
Browndown.  If  Nugent  had  returned  secretly  to  Dimchurch, 
one  of  those  two  men,  in  our  little  village,  must  almost  cer- 
tainly have  seen  him.  Neither  of  them  had  seen  him. 

I  inferred  from  this  that  he  had  not  tried  to  communicate 
with  her  personally.  Had  he  attempted  it  (more  cunningly 
and  more  safely)  by  letter  ? 

I  went  back  to  the  rectory.    It  was  close  on  the  hour  whku 


330  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

I  had  appointed  with  Lucilla — now  that  the  responsibility 
rested  on  my  shoulders — for  allowing  her  to  use  her  eyes. 
On  taking  off  the  bandage  I  noticed  a  circumstance  which 
confirmed  the  conclusion  at  which  I  had  already  arrived. 
Her  eyes  deliberately  avoided  looking  into  mine.  Suppress- 
ing as  well  as  I  could  the  pain  which  this  new  discovery 
caused  me,  I  repeated  Grosse's  words  prohibiting  her  from 
attempting  to  look  into  a  book  or  to  use  a  pen  until  he  had 
seen  her  again. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  him  to  forbid  me  to  do  that,"  she 
said. 

"Have  you  attempted  it  already?"  I  inquired. 

"I  looked  into  a  little  book  of  engravings,"  she  answered. 
"But  I  could  distinguish  nothing.  The  lines  all  mingled  to- 
gether and  swam  before  my  eyes." 

"  Have  you  tried  to  write  ?"  I  asked  next.  (I  was  ashamed 
of  myself  for  laying  that  trap  for  her — although  the  serious 
necessity  of  discovering  whether  she  was  privately  in  cor- 
respondence with  Nugent  might  surely  have  excused  it.) 

"  No,"  she  replied.     "  I  have  not  tried  to  write." 

She  changed  color  when  she  made  that  answer. 

It  is  necessary  to  own  that,  in  putting  my  question,  I  was 
too  much  excited  to  call  to  mind  what  I  should  have  remem- 
bered in  a  calmer  state.  There  was  no  necessity  for  her  try- 
ing to  use  her  eyes — even  if  she  was  really  carrying  on  a  cor- 
respondence which  she  wished  to  keep  secret  from  me.  Zil- 
lah  had  been  in  the  habit  of  reading  her  letters  to  her  before 
I  appeared  at  the  rectory ;  and  she  could  write  short  notes 
(as  I  have  already  mentioned)  by  feeling  her  way  on  the 
paper  with  her  finger.  Besides,  having  learned  to  read  by 
touch  (that  is  to  say,  with  raised  characters),  just  as  she  had 
learned  to  write,  even  if  her  eyes  had  been  sufficiently  recov- 
ered to  enable  her  to  distinguish  small  objects,  nothing  but 
practice  could  have  enabled  her  to  use  them  for  purposes  of 
correspondence. 

These  considerations,  though  they  did  not  strike  me  at  the 
time,  occurred  to  me  later  in  the  day,  and  altered  my  opinion 
to  a  certain  extent.  I  now  interpreted  the  change  of  color 
which  I  had  noticed  in  her  as  the  outward  sign  of  suspicion 
on  her  side — suspicion  that  I  had  a  motive  of  my  own  in  in- 
terrogating her.  For  the  rest,  my  doubts  of  Nugent  remained 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  337 

unmoved.  Try  as  I  might,  I  could  not  divest  my  mind  of 
the  idea  that  he  was  playing  me  false,  and  that  in  one  way 
or  another  he  had  contrived  not  only  to  communicate  with 
Lucilla,  but  to  persuade  her  to  keep  me  in  ignorance  of  what 
he  had  done. 

I  deferred  to  the  next  day  any  attempt  at  making  further 
discoveries. 

The  last  thing  at  night,  I  had  a  momentary  impulse  to 
question  Zillah.  Reflection  soon  checked  it.  My  experience 
of  the  nurse's  character  told  me  that  she  would  take  refuge 
in  flat  denial — and  would  then  inform  her  mistress  of  what 
had  happened.  I  knew  enough  of  Lucilla  to  know  (after 
what  had  already  passed  between  us)  that  a  quarrel  with  me 
would  follow.  Things  were  bad  enough  already,  without 
making  them  worse  in  that  way.  When  the  morning  came, 
I  resolved  to  keep  a  watchful  eye  on  the  village  post-oflice, 
and  on  the  movements  of  the  nurse. 

When  the  morning  came,  there  v/as  a  letter  for  me  from 
abroad. 

The  address  was  in  the  handwriting  of  one  of  my  sisters. 
We  usually  wrote  to  each  other  at  intervals  of  a  fortnight  or 
three  weeks.  This  letter  had  followed  its  predecessor  after 
an  interval  of  less  than  one  week.  What  did  it  mean  ?  Good 
news  or  bad  ? 

I  opened  the  letter. 

It  inclosed  a  telegram  announcing  that  my  poor  dear  fa- 
ther was  lying  dangerously  wounded  at  Marseilles.  My  sis- 
ters had  already  gone  to  him:  they  implored  me  to  follow 
them  without  one  moment  of  needless  delay.  Is  it  necessary 
to  tell  the  story  of  this  horrible  calamity  ?  Of  course  it  be- 
gins with  a  woman  and  an  elopement.  Of  course  it  ends 
with  a  young  man  and  a  duel.  Have  I  not  told  you  already? 
— Papa  was  so  susceptible ;  Papa  was  so  brave.  Oh,  dear, 
dear  !  the  old  story  over  again.  You  have  an  English  prov- 
erb :  "  What  is  bred  in  the  bone — "  et  csetera,  et  cjetera.  Let 
us  drop  the  veil.  I  mean,  let  us  end  the  chapter. 

P 


338  POOR  MISS   FINCH. 


CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-  FIRST. 

A    HARD  TIME    FOR   MADAME  PRATOLUNGO. 

OUGHT  I  to  have  been  prepared  for  the  calamity  which  had 
now  fallen  on  my  sisters  and  myself?  If  I  had  looked  my 
own  experience  of  my  poor  father  fairly  in  the  face,  would  it 
not  have  been  plain  to  me  that  the  habits  of  a  life  were  not 
likely  to  be  altered  at  the  end  of  a  life?  Surely,  if  I  had  ex- 
erted my  intelligence,  I  might  have  foreseen  that  the  longer 
his  reformation  lasted,  the  nearer  he  was  to  a  relapse,  and 
the  more  obviously  probable  it  became  that  he  would  fail  to 
fulfill  the  hopeful  expectations  which  I  had  cherished  of  his 
conduct  in  the  future?  I  grant  it  all.  But  where  are  the 
pattern  people  who  can  exert  their  intelligence,  when  their 
intelligence  points  to  one  conclusion  and  their  interests  to 
another?  Ah,  my  dear  ladies  and  gentlemen,  there  is  such 
a  fine,  strong  foundation  of  stupidity  at  the  bottom  of  our 
common  humanity — if  we  only  knew  it! 

I  could  feel  no  hesitation — as  soon  as  I  had  recovered  my- 
self— about  Avhat  it  was  my  duty  to  do.  My  duty  was  to  leave 
Dimchurch  in  time  to  catch  the  fast  mail-train  from  London 
to  the  Continent,  at  eight  o'clock  that  night. 

And  leave  Lucilla? 

Yes !  not  even  Lucilla's  interests — dearly  as  I  loved  her, 
alarmed  as  I  felt  about  her — were  as  sacred  as  the  interests 
which  called  me  to  my  father's  bedside.  I  had  some  hours 
to  spare  before  it  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  leave  her. 
All  I  could  do  was  to  employ  those  hours  in  taking  the  strict- 
est precautions  I  could  think  of  to  protect  her  in  my  absence. 
I  could  not  be  long  parted  from  her.  One  way  or  the  other, 
the  miserable  doubt  whether  my  father  would  live  or  die 
would,  at  his  age,  soon  be  over. 

I  sent  for  her  to  see  me  in  my  room,  and  showed  her  my 
letter. 

She  was  honestly  grieved  when  she  read  it.  For  a  moment 
— when  she  spoke  her  few  words  of  sympathy — the  painful 
constraint  in  her  manner  toward  me  passed  away.  It  returned 


POOE  MISS   FINCII.  339 

again  when  I  announced  my  intention  of  starting  for  France 
that  day,  and  expressed  the  regret  I  felt  at  being  obliged  to 
defer  our  visit  to  Ramsgate  for  the  present.  She  not  only 
answered  restrainedly  (forming,  as  I  fancied,  some  thought 
at  the  moment  in  her  own  mind) — she  left  me  with  a  com- 
monplace excuse.  "You  must  have  much  to  think  of  in  this 
sad  affliction :  I  won't  intrude  on  you  any  longer.  If  you 
want  me,  you  know  where  to  find  me."  With  no  more  than 
those  words,  she  walked  out  of  the  room. 

I  never  remember,  at  any  other  time,  such  .1  sense  of  help- 
lessness and  confusion  as  came  over  me  when  she  had  closed 
the  door.  I  set  to  work  to  pack  up  the  few  things  I  wanted 
for  the  journey,  feeling  instinctively  that  if  I  did  not  occupy 
myself  in  doing  something,  I  should  break  down  altogether. 
Accustomed,  in  all  the  other  emergencies  of  my  life,  to  de- 
cide rapidly,  I  was  not  even  clear  enough  in  my  mind  to  see 
the  facts  as  they  were.  As  to  resolving  on  any  thing,  I  was 
about  as  capable  of  doing  that  as  the  baby  in  Mrs.  Finch's 
arms. 

The  effort  of  packing  aided  me  to  rally  a  little — but  did 
no  more  toward  restoring  me  to  my  customary  tone  of 
mind. 

I  sat  clown  helplessly,  when  I  had  done,  feeling  the  serious 
necessity  of  clearing  matters  up  between  Lucilla  and  myself 
before  I  went  away,  and  still  as  ignorant  as  ever  how  to  do 
it.  To  my  indescribable  disgust,  I  actually  felt  tears  begin- 
ning to  find  their  way  into  my  eyes  !  I  had  just  enough  of 
Pratol ungo's  widow  left  in  me  to  feel  heartily  ashamed  of  my- 
self. Past  vicissitudes  and  dangers,  in  the  days  of  my  repub- 
lican life  with  my  husband,  had  made  me  a  sturdy  walker — 
with  a  gypsy  relish  (like  my  little  Jicks)  for  the  open  air.  I 
snatched  up  my  hat,  and  went  out  to  see  what  exercise  would 
do  for  me. 

I  tried  the  garden.  No  !  the  garden  was  (for  some  inscru- 
table reason)  not  big  enough.  I  had  still  some  hours  to  spare. 
I  tried  the  hills  next. 

Turning  toward  the  left,  and  passing  the  church,  I  heard 
through  the  open  windows  the  boom-boom  of  Reverend 
Finch's  voice  catechising  the  village  children.  Thank  Heav- 
en, he  was  out  of  my  way,  at  any  rate!  I  mounted  the  hills, 
hurrying  on  as  fast  as  I  could.  The  air  and  the  movement 


340  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

cleared  my  mind.  After  more  than  an  hour  of  h.ird  walking, 
I  returned  to  the  rectory,  feeling  like  my  old  self  again. 

Perhaps  there  were  some  dregs  of  irresolution  still  left  in 
me.  Or  perhaps  there  was  some  enervating  influence  in  my 
affliction,  which  made  me  feel  more  sensitively  than  ever  the 
change  in  the  relations  between  Lucilla  and  myself.  Having, 
by  this  time,  resolved  to  come  to  a  plain  explanation,  before 
I  left  her  unprotected  at  the  rectory,  I  shrank,  even  yet,  from 
confronting  a  possible  repulse  by  speaking  to  her  personally. 
Taking  a  leaf  out  of  poor  Oscar's  book,  I  wrote  what  I  want- 
ed to  say  to  her  in  a  note. 

I  rang  the  bell — once,  twice.     Nobody  answered  it. 

I  went  to  the  kitchen.  Zillah  was  not  there.  I  knocked 
at  the  door  of  her  bedroom.  There  was  no  answer:  the 
bedroom  was  empty  when  I  looked  in.  Awkward  as  it 
would  be,  I  found  myself  obliged  either  to  give  my  note  to 
Lucilla  with  my  own  hand,  or  to  decide  on  speaking  to  her, 
after  all. 

I  could  not  prevail  on  myself  to  speak  to  her.  So  I  went 
to  her  room  with  my  note,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

Here  again  there  was  no  reply.  I  knocked  once  more — 
with  the  same  result.  I  looked  in.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
room.  On  the  little  table  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  there  lay  a 
letter  addressed  to  me.  The  writing  was  in  Zillah's  hand. 
But  Lucilla  had  written  her  name  in  the  corner,  in  the  usual 
way,  to  show  that  she  had  dictated  the  letter  to  her  nurse. 
A  load  was  lifted  off  my  heart  as  I  took  it  up.  The  same 
idea  (I  concluded)  had  occurred  to  her  which  had  occurred 
to  me.  She  too  had  shrunk  from  the  embarrassment  of  a 
personal  explanation.  She  too  had  written — and  was  keep- 
ing out  of  the  way  until  her  letter  had  spoken  for  her,  and 
had  united  us  again  as  friends  before  I  left  the  house. 

With  these  pleasant  anticipations  I  opened  the  letter. 
Judge  what  I  felt  when  I  found  what  it  really  contained. 

"DEAR  MADAME  PRATOLUNGO, — You  will  agree  with  me 
that  it  is  very  important,  after  what  Herr  Grosse  has  said 
about  the  recovery  of  my  sight,  that  my  visit  to  Ramsgatc 
should  not  be  delayed.  As  you  are  unable,  through  circum- 
stances which  I  sincerely  regret,  to  accompany  me  to  the  sea- 
side, I  have  determined  to  go  to  London  to  my  aunt,  Miss 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  341 

Batchford,  and  to  ask  her  to  be  my  companion  instead  of  you. 
I  have  had  experience  enough  of  her  sincere  affection  for  me 
to  be  quite  sure  that  she  will  gladly  take  the  charge  of  me 
off  your  hands.  As  no  time  is  to  be  lost,  I  start  for  London 
without  waiting  for  your  return  from  your  walk  to  wish  you 
good-by.  You  so  thoroughly  understand  the  necessity  of 
dispensing  with  formal  farewells,  in  cases  of  emergency,  that 
I  am  sure  you  will  not  feel  offended  at  my  taking  leave  of 
you  in  this  way.  With  best  wishes  for  your  father's  recov- 
ery, believe  me,  Yours  very  truly, 

"  LUCILLA. 

"  P.  S. — You  need  be  under  no  apprehension  about  me.  Zil- 
lah  goes  with  me  as  far  as  London ;  and  I  shall  communicate 
with  Herr  Grosse  when  I  arrive  at  my  aunt's  house." 

But  for  one  sentence  in  it  I  should  most  assuredly  have  an- 
swered this  cruel  letter  by  instantly  resigning  my  situation 
as  Lucilla's  companion. 

The  sentence  to  which  I  refer  contained  the  words  which 
cast  in  my  teeth  the  excuses  that  I  had  made  for  Oscar's  ab- 
sence. The  sarcastic  reference  to  my  recent  connection  with 
a  case  of  emergency,  and  to  my  experience  of  the  necessity 
of  dispensing  with  formal  farewells,  removed  my  last  linger- 
ing doubts  of  Nugent's  treachery.  I  now  felt  not  suspicion 
only,  but  positive  conviction  that  he  had  communicated  with 
her  in  his  brother's  name,  and  that  he  had  contrived  (by  some 
means  at  which  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  guess)  so  to  work 
on  Lucilla's  mind — so  to  excite  that  indwelling  distrust  which 
her  blindness  had  rooted  in  her  character — as  to  destroy  her 
confidence  in  me  for  the  time  being. 

Arriving  at  this  conclusion,  I  could  still  feel  compassion- 
ately and  generously  toward  Lucilla.  Far  from  blaming  my 
poor  deluded  sister-friend  for  her  cruel  departure  and  her  yet 
crueler  letter,  I  laid  the  whole  fault  on  the  shoulders  of  Nu- 
gent. Full  as  my  mind  was  of  my  own  troubles,  I  could  still 
think  of  the  danger  that  threatened  Lucilla,  and  of  the  wrong 
that  Oscar  had  suffered.  I  could  still  feel  the  old  glow  of 
my  resolution  to  bring  them  together  again,  and  still  remem- 
ber (and  determined  to  pay)  the  debt  I  owed  to  Nugent 
Dubourcr. 


342  POOR    MISS    FINC1I. 

In  the  turn  tilings  had  taken,  and  with  the  short  time  still 
at  ray  disposal,  what  was  I  to  do  next  ?  Assuming  that  Miss 
Batehford  would  accompany  her  niece  to  Ramsgate,  how 
could  I  put  the  necessary  obstacle  in  Nugent's  way,  if  he  at- 
tempted to  communicate  with  Lucilla  at  the  sea-side,  in  my 
absence  ? 

It  was  impossible  for  me  to  decide  this,  unless  I  first  knew 
whether  Miss  Batehford,  as  a  member  of  the  family,  was  to 
be  confidentially  informed  of  the  sad  position  in  which  Oscar 
and  Lucilla  now  stood  toward  each  other. 

The  person  to  consult  in  this  difficulty  was  the  rector.  As 
head  of  the  household,  and  in  my  absence,  the  responsibility 
evidently  rested  with  Reverend  Finch. 

I  went  round  at  once  to  the  other  side  of  the  house.  If 
Mr.  Finch  had  returned  to  the  rectory,  after  the  catechising 
was  over,  well  and  good.  If  not,  I  should  be  obliged  to  in- 
quire in  the  village,  and  seek  him  at  the  cottages  of  his  par- 
ishioners. His  magnificent  voice  relieved  me  from  all  anxiety 
on  this  head.  The  boom-boom  which  I  had  last  heard  in  the 
church,  I  now  heard  again  in  the  study. 

When  I  entered  the  room  Mr.  Finch  was  on  his  legs,  highly 
excited,  haranguing  Mrs.  Finch  and  the  baby,  ensconced  as 
usual  in  a  corner.  My  appearance  on  the  scene  diverted  his 
flow  of  language,  for  the  moment,  so  that  it  all  poured  itself 
out  on  my  unlucky  self.  (If  you  recollect  that  the  rector  and 
Lucilla's  aunt  had  been,  from  time  immemorial,  on  the  worst 
of  terms,  you  will  be  prepared  for  what  is  coming.  If  you 
have  forgotten  this,  look  back  at  my  sixth  chapter  and  refresh 
your  memory.) 

"  The  very  person  I  was  going  to  send  for !"  said  the  Pope 
of  Dimchurch.  "Don't  excite  Mrs.  Finch  !  Don't  sp^eak  to 
Mrs.  Finch !  You  shall  hear  why  directly.  Address  yourself 
exclusively  to  Me.  Be  calm,  Madame  Pratolungo  !  you  don't 
know  what  has  happened.  I  am  here  to  tell  you." 

I  ventured  to  stop  him,  mentioning  that  Lucilla's  letter  had 
informed  me  of  his  daughter's  sudden  departure  for  her  aunt's 
house.  Mr.  Finch  waved  away  my  answer  with  his  hand,  as 
something  too  infinitely  unimportant  to  be  worthy  of  a  mo- 
ment's notice. 

"Yes!  yes!  yes!"  he  said.  "You  have  a  superficial  ac- 
quaintance with  the  facts.  But  you  are  far  from  being  aware 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  343 

of  what  my  daughter's  sudden  removal  of  herself  from  my 
roof  really  means.  Now  don't  be  frightened,  Madame  Prato- 
lungo!  and  don't  excite  Mrs.  Finch! — How  are  you, my  dear? 
how  is  the  child?  Both  well.  Thanks  to  an  overruling 
Providence,  both  well. — Now,  Madame  Pratolungo,  attend 
to  this.  My  daughter's  flight — I  say  flight  advisedly :  it  is 
nothing  less — my  daughter's  flight  from  my  house  means  ([ 
entreat  you  to  be  calm  !) — means  ANOTHER  BLOW  dealt  at  me 
by  the  family  of  my  first  wife.  Dealt  at  me,"  repeated  Mr. 
Finch,  heating  himself  with  the  recollection  of  his  old  feud 
with  the  Batchfords — "dealt  at  me  by  Miss  Batchford  (by 
Lucilla's  aunt,  Madame  Pratolungo)  through  my  unoffending 
second  wife  and  my  innocent  child. — Are  you  sure  you  are 
well,  my  dear?  are  you  sure  the  infant  is  well?  Thank  Prov- 
idence!— Concentrate  your  attention,  Madame  Pratolungo! 
Your  attention  is  wandering.  Prompted  by  Miss  Batchford, 
my  daughter  has  left  my  roof.  Ramsgate  is  a  mere  excuse. 
And  how  lias  she  left  it?  Not  only  without  first  seeing  Me 
— I  am  Nobody  ! — but  without  showing  the  slightest  sympa- 
thy for  Mrs.  Finch's  maternal  situation.  Attired  in  her  trav- 
eling costume,  my  daughter  precipitately  entered  (or  to  use 
my  wife's  graphic  expression,  ' bounced  into'')  the  nursery, 
while  Mrs.  Finch  was  administering  maternal  sustenance  to 
the  infant.  Under  circumstances  which  might  have  touched 
the  heart  of  a  bandit  or  a  savage,  my  unnatural  daughter 
(remind  me,  Mrs.  Finch ;  we  will  have  a  little  Shakspeare  to- 
night; I  will  read  'King  Lear') — my  unnatural  daughter 
announced  without  one  word  of  preparation  that  a  domestic 
affliction  would  prevent  you  from  accompanying  her  to  Rams- 
gate.  Grieved,  dear  Madame  Pratolungo,  to  hear  it.  Cast 
your  burden  on  Providence. — Bear  up,  Mrs.  Finch ;  bear  up. 
— Having  startled  my  wife  with  this  harrowing  news,  my 
daughter  next  shocked  her  by  declaring  that  she  was  going 
to  leave  her  father's  roof  without  waiting  to  bid  her  father 
good-by.  The  catching  of  a  train,  you  will  observe,  was  (no 
doubt  at  Miss  Batchford's  instigation)  of  more  importance 
than  the  parental  embrace  or  the  pastoral  blessing.  Leaving 
a  message  of  apology  for  Me,  my  heartless  child  (I  use  Mrs. 
Finch's  graphic  language  again — you  have  fair,  very  fair  pow- 
ers of  expression,  Mrs.  Finch) — my  heartless  child  'bounced 
out'  of  the  nursery  to  catch  her  train;  having,  for  all  she 


344  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

knew  or  cared,  administered  a  shock  to  my  wife  which  might 
have  soured  the  fountain  of  maternal  sustenance  at  its  source. 
There  is  where  the  Blow  falls,  Madame  Pratolungo !  How 
do  I  know  that  acid  disturbance  is  not  being  communicated 
at  this  moment,  instead  of  wholesome  nourishment,  between 
mother  and  child? — I  shall  prepare  you  an  alkaline  draught, 
Mrs.  Finch,  to  be  taken  after  meals.  Don't  speak;  don't 
move !  Give  me  your  pulse. — I  hold  Miss  Batehford  account- 
able, Madame  Pratolungo,  for  whatever  happens — my  daugh- 
ter is  a  mere  instrument  in  the  hands  of  my  first  wife's  fam- 
ily.— Give  me  your  pulse,  Mrs.  Finch.  I  don't  like  your  pulse. 
Come  up  stairs  directly.  A  recumbent  position  and  another 
warm  bath — under  Providence,  Madame  Pratolungo  ! — may 
parry  the  Blow. — Would  you  kindly  open  the  door,  and  pick 
up  Mrs.  Finch's  handkerchief?  Never  mind  the  novel — the 
handkerchief." 

.  I  seized  my  first  opportunity  of  speaking  again,  Avhile  Mr. 
Finch  was  conducting  his  wife  (with  his  arm  round  her 
waist)  to  the  door — putting  the  question  which  I  had  been 
waiting  to  ask  in  this  cautious  form : 

"Do  you  propose  to  communicate,  Sir,  either  with  your 
daughter  or  with  Miss  Batehford,  while  Lucilla  is  away  from 
the  rectory?  My  object  in  venturing  to  ask — " 

Before  I  could  state  my  object  Mr.  Finch  turned  round 
(turning  Mrs.  Finch  with  him)  and  surveyed  me  from  head 
to  foot  with  a  look  of  indignant  astonishment. 

"Is  it  possible  you  can  see  this  double  Wreck,"  said  Mr. 
Finch,  indicating  his  wife  and  child,  "and  suppose  that  I 
would  communicate,  or  sanction  communication  of  any  sort, 
with  the  persons  who  are  responsible  for  it?  —  My  dear! 
can  you  account  for  Madame  Pratolungo's  extraordinary 
question  ?  Am  I  to  understand  (do  you  understand)  that 
Madame  Pratolungo  is  insulting  me  ?" 

It  was  useless  to  try  to  explain  myself.  It  was  useless  for 
Mrs.- Finch  (who  had  made  several  abortive  efforts  to  put  in 
a  word  or  two  on  her  own  part)  to  attempt  to  pacify  her 
husband.  All  the  poor  damp  lady  could  do  was  to  beg  me 
to  write  to  her  from  foreign  parts.  "I'm  sorry  you're  in 
trouble;  and  I  should  really  be  glad  to  hear  from  you." 
Mrs.  Finch  had  barely  time  to  say  those  kind  words  before 
the  rector,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  desired  me  to  look  at  "  that 


POOR  MISS   FINCH.  345 

double  Wreck,  and  respect  it  if  I  did  not  respect  hint" — and 
with  that  walked  himself,  his  wife,  and  his  baby  out  of  the 
room. 

Having  gained  the  object  which  had  brought  me  into  the 
study,  I  made  no  attempt  to  detain  him.  The  little  sense 
the  man  possessed  at  the  best  of  times  was  completely  upset 
by  the  shock  which  Lucilla's  abrupt  departure  had  inflicted 
on  his  high  opinion  of  his  own  importance.  That  he  would 
end  in  being  reconciled  to  his  daughter  —  before  her  next 
subscription  to  the  household  expenses  fell  due — was  a  mat- 
ter of  downright  certainty.  But,  until  that  time  came,  I 
felt  equally  sure  that  he  Avould  vindicate  his  outraged  dig- 
nity by  declining  to  hold  any  communication,  in  person  or 
in  writing,  with  Ramsgate.  During  the  short  term  of  my 
absence  from  England  Miss  Batchford  would  be  left  as  ig- 
norant of  her  niece's  perilous  position  between  the  twin 
brothers  as  Lucilla  herself.  To  know  this  was  to  have  gain- 
ed the  information  that  I  wanted.  Nothing  was  left  but  to 
set  my  brains  to  work  at  once  and  act  on  it. 

How  was  I  to  act  on  it  ? 

On  the  spur  of  the  moment  I  could  see  but  one  way.  If 
Grosse  pronounced  Lucilla's  recovery  to  be  complete  before 
I  returned  from  abroad,  the  best  thinjj  I  could  do  would  be 

o 

to  place  Miss  Batchford  in  a  position  to  reveal  the  truth  in 
my  place,  without  running  any  risk  of  a  premature  discovery 
—in  other  words,  without  letting  the  old  lady  into  the  se- 
cret before  the  time  arrived  at  which  it  could  be  safely  di- 
vulged. 

This  apparently  intricate  difficulty  was  easily  overcome 
by  writing  two  letters  (before  I  went  away)  instead  of  one. 

The  first  letter  I  addressed  to  Lucilla.  Without  any  ref- 
erence to  her  behavior  to  me,  I  stated,  in  the  fullest  detail 
and  with  all  needful  delicacy,  her  position  between  Oscar 
and  Nugent ;  and  referred  her  for  proof  of  the  truth  of  my 
assertions  to  her  relatives  at  the  rectory.  "  I  leave  it  entire- 
ly to  your  discretion"  (I  added)  "to  write  me  an  answer  or 
not.  Put  the  warning  which  I  now  give  you  to  the  proof; 
and  if  you  wonder  why  it  has  been  so  long  delayed,  apply 
to  Ilerr  Grosso,  on  whom  the  whole  responsibility  rests." 
There  I  ended  ;  being  resolved,  after  the  wrong  that  Lucilla 
had  inflicted  on  me,  to  leave  my  justification  to  facts.  I 

P  2 


346  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

confess  I  was  too  deeply  wounded  by  her  conduct — though 
I  did  lay  all  the  blame  of  it  on  Nugent — to  care  to  say  a 
word  in  my  own  defense. 

This  letter  sealed,  I  wrote  next  to  Lucilla's  aunt. 

It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  address  Miss  Batchford. 
The  contempt  with  which  she  regarded  Mr.  Finch's  opinions 
in  politics  and  religion  was  more  than  matched  by  the  strong 
aversion  which  she  felt  for  my  republican  opinions.  I  have 
already  mentioned,  far  back  in  these  pages,  that  a  dispute  on 
politics  between  the  Tory  old  lady  and  myself  ended  in  a 
quarrel  between  us  which  closed  the  doors  of  her  house  on 
me  from  that  time  forth.  Knowing  this,  I  ventured  on  writ- 
ins  to  her  nevertheless,  because  I  also  knew  Miss  Batchford 

O  * 

to  be  (apart  from  her  furious  prejudices)  a  gentlewoman  in 
the  best  sense  of  the  word ;  devotedly  attached  to  her  niece, 
and  quite  as  capable,  when  that  devotion  was  appealed  to, 
of  doing  justice  to  me  (apart  from  my  furious  prejudices)  as 
I  was  of  doing  justice  to  her.  Writing  in  a  tone  of  unaf- 
fected respect,  and  appealing  to  her  forbearance  to  encour- 
age mine,  I  requested  her  to  hand  my  letter  to  Lucilla  on  the 
day  when  the  surgeon  reported  that  all  further  necessity  for 
his  attendance  had  ceased.  In  the  interval  before  this  hap- 
pened, I  entreated  Miss  Batchford,  in  her  niece's  interests,  to 
consider  my  letter  as  a  strictly  private  communication  ;  add- 
ing that  my  sufficient  reason  for  venturing  to  make  this  con- 
dition would  be  found  in  my  letter  to  Lucilla,  which  I  au- 
thorized her  aunt  to  read  as  soon  as  the  time  had  arrived  for 
opening  it. 

By  this  means  I  had,  as  I  firmly  believed,  taken  the  only 
possible  way  of  preventing  Nugent  Dubourg  from  doing  any 
serious  mischief  in  my  absence. 

Whatever  his  uncontrolled  infatuation  for  Lucilla  might 
lead  him  to  do  next,  he  could  proceed  to  no  serious  extremi- 
ties until  Grosse  pronounced  her  recovery  to  be  complete. 
On  the  day  when  Grosse  did  that,  she  would  receive  my  let- 
ter, and  would  discover  for  herself  the  abominable  deception 
which  had  been  practiced  on  her.  As  to  attempting  to  find 
Nugent,  no  idea  of  doing  this  entered  my  mind.  Wherever 
he  might  be,  at  home  or  abroad,  it  would  be  equally  useless 
to  appeal  to  his  honor  again.  It  would  be  degrading  my- 
self to  speak  to  him  or  to  trust  him.  To  expose  him  to  Lu- 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  347 

cilia  the  moment  it  became  possible  was  the  one  thing  to  be 
done. 

I  was  ready  with  my  letters,  one  inclosed  in  the  other, 
when  good  Mr.  Gootheridge  (with  whom  I  had  arranged  pre- 
viously) called  to  drive  me  to  Brighton  in  his  light  cart. 
The  chaise  which  he  had  for  hire  had  been  already  used  to 
make  the  same  journey  by  Lucilla  and  the  nurse,  and  had 
not  yet  been  returned  to  the  inn.  I  reached  my  train  be- 
fore the  hour  of  starting,  and  arrived  in  London  with  a  suf- 
ficient margin  of  time  to  spare. 

Resolved  to  make  sure  that  no  possible  mischance  could 
occur,  I  drove  to  Miss  Batchford's  house,  and  saw  the  cabman 
give  my  letter  into  the  servant's  hands. 

It  was  a  bitter  moment  when  I  found  myself  pulling  down 
my  veil  in  the  fear  that  Lucilla  might  be  at  the  window  and 
see  me !  Nobody  was  visible  but  the  man  who  answered 
the  door.  If  pen,  ink,  and  paper  had  been  within  my  reach 
at  the  moment,  I  think  I  should  have  written  to  her  on  my 
own  account,  after  all !  As  it  was,  I  could  only  forgive  her 
the  injury  she  had  done  me.  From  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  forgave  her,  and  longed  for  the  blessed  time  which  should 
unite  us  again.  In  the  mean  while,  having  done  every  thing 
that  I  could  to  guard  and  help  her,  I  was  now  free  to  give 
to  Oscar  all  the  thoughts  that  I  could  spare  from  my  poor, 
misguided  father. 

Being  bound  for  the  Continent,  I  determined  (though  the 
chances  were  a  hundred  to  one  against  me)  to  do  all  that  I 
could,  in  my  painful  position,  to  discover  the  place  of  Oscar's 
retreat.  The  weary  hours  of  suspense  at  my  father's  bedside 
would  be  lightened  to  me,  if  I  could  feel  that  the  search  for 
the  lost  man  was  being  carried  on  at  my  instigation,  and  that 
from  day  to  day  there  was  a  bare  possibility  of  my  hearing 
of  him,  it'  there  was  no  more. 

The  office  of  the  lawyer  whom  I  had  consulted  during  my 
previous  visit  to  London  lay  in  my  way  to  the  terminus.  I 
drove  there  next,  and  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  him  still 
at  business. 

No  tidings  had  been  heard  from  Oscar.  The  lawyer,  how- 
ever, proved  to  be  useful  by  giving  me  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion to  a  person  at  Marseilles  accustomed  to  conduct  difficult 
confidential  inquiries,  and  having  agents  whom  he  could  em- 


348  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

ploy  in  all  the  great  cities*  of  Europe. ;  A  man  of  Oscar's 
startling  personal  appearance  would  be  surely  more  or  less 
easy  to  trace,  if  the  right  machinery  to  do  it  could  be  only 
set  at  work.  My  savings  would  suffice  for  this  purpose  to  a 
certain  extent — and  to  that  extent  I  resolved  that  they  should 
be  used  when  I  reached  my  journey's  end. 

It  was  a  troubled  sea  on  the  channel  passage  that  night. 
I  remained  on  deck,  accepting  any  inconvenience  rather  than 
descend  into  the  atmosphere  of  the  cabin.  As  I  looked  out 
to  sea  on  one  side  and  on  the  other,  the  dark  waste  of  the. 
tossing  waters  seemed  to  be  the  fit  and  dreary  type  of  the 
dark  prospect  that  was  before  me.  On  the  trackless  path 
that  we  were  plowing  a  faint,  misty  moonlight  shed  its  doubt- 
ful ray,  like  the  doubtful  light  of  hope  faintly  flickering  on 
my  mind  when  I  thought  of  the  coming  time ! 


CHAPTER  THE  FORTY- SECOND. 

THE    STORY    OF   LUCILLA :    TOLD   BY    HERSELF. 

IN  my  description  of  what  Lucilla  said  and  did  on  the  oc- 
casion when  the  surgeon  was  teaching  her  to  use  her  sight,  it- 

*r*  ^y  o  * 

will  be  remembered  that  she  is  represented  as  having  been  par-? 
ticularly  anxious  to  be  allowed  to  try  how  she  could  write.  k 

The  inotive  at  the  bottom  of  this  was  the  motive  which  is 
always  at  the  bottom  of  a  woman's  conduct  when  she  loves. 
Her  one  ambition  is  to  present  herself  to  advantage,  even  in 
the  most  trifling  matters,  before  the  man  on  whom  her  heart 
is  fixed.  Ltrcilla's  one  ambition  with  Oscar  was  this  and  no; 
more. 

Conscious  that  her  handwriting — thus  far,  painfully  and, 
incompletely  guided  by  her  sense  of  touch — must  present  it- 
self in  sadly  unfavorable  contrast  to  the  handwriting  of  other, 
women  who  could  see,  she  persisted  in  petitioning  Grosse  to 
permit  her  to  learn  to  "  write  with  her  eyes  instead  of  her 
finger,"  until  she  fairly  wearied  out  the  worthy  German's 
power  of  resistance.  The  rapid  improvement  in  her  sight 
after  her  removal  to  the  sea-side  justified  him  (as  I  was  after- 
ward informed)  in  letting  her  have  her  way.  Little  by  little, 
using  her  eyes  for  a  longer  and  longer  time  on  each  succeed- 
ing day,  she  mastered  the  serious  difficulty  of  teaching  her- 


POOR   MISS   FIXCH.  349 

self  to  write  by  sight  instead  of  by  touch.  Beginning  with 
lines  in  copy-books,  she  got  on  to  writing  easy  words  to  dic- 
tation. From  that,  again,  she  advanced  to  writing  notes; 
and  from  writing  notes  to  keeping  a  journal — this  last  at  the 
suggestion  of  her  aunt,  who  had  lived  in  the  days  before 
penny  postage,  when  people  kept  journals  and  wrote  long 
letters :  in  short,  when  people  had  time  to  think  of  them- 
selves, and,  more  wonderful  still,  to  write  about  it  too. 

Lucilla's  Journal  at  Ramsgate  lies  before  me  as  I  trace 
these  lines. 

I  had  planned  at  first  to  make  use  of  it,  so  as  to  continue 
the  course  of  my  narrative  without  a  check,  still  writing  in 
my  own  person,  as  I  have  written  thus  far,  and  as  I  propose 
to  write  again  when  I  re-appear  on  the  scene. 

But  on  thinking  over  it  once  more,  and  after  reading  the 
Journal  again,  it  strikes  me  as  the  wiser  proceeding  to  let 
Lucilla  tell  the  story  of  her  life  at  Ramsgate  herself,  adding 
notes  of  my  own  occasionally  where  they  appear  to  be  re- 
quired. Variety,  freshness,  and  reality— I  believe  I  shall  se- 
cure them  all  three  by  following  this  plan.  Why  is  History 
in  general  (I  know  there  are  brilliant  exceptions  to  the  rule) 
such  dull  reading?  Because  it  is  the  narrative  of  events 
written  at  second-hand.  Now  I  will  be  any  thing  else  you 
please  except  dull.  You  may  say  I  have  been  dull  already? 
As  I  am  an  honest  woman,  I  don't  agree  with  you.  There 
are  some  people  who  bring  dull  minds  to  their  reading,  and 
then  blame  the  writer  for  it.  I  say  no  more. 

Consider  it  arranged,  then.  During  my  absence  on  the 
Continent  Lucilla  shall  tell  the  story  of  events  at  Ramsgate. 
(And  I  will  sprinkle  a  few  notes  over  it  here  and  there,  sign- 
ed P.) 

LUCILLA'S   JOURNAL. 

East  Cliff, Ramsgate,  August  28. — A  fortnight  to-day  since 
my  aunt  and  I  arrived  at  this  place.  I  sent  Zillali  back  to 
the  rectory  from  London.  Her  rheumatic  infirmities  trouble 
her  tenfold,  poor  old  soul,  in  the  moist  air  of  the  sea-side. 

How  has  my  writing  got  on  for  the  last  week?  I  am  be- 
coming a  little  better  satisfied  with  it  I  use  my  pen  more 
easily;  my  hand  is  less  like  the  hand  of  a  backward  child 


350  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

than  it  was.     I  shall  be  able  to  write  as  well  as  other  ladies 
do  when  I  am  Oscar's  wife. 

[Note. — She  is  easily  satisfied,  poor  dear.  Her  improved 
handwriting  is  sadly  crooked.  Some  of  the  letters  embrace 
each  other  at  close  quarters  like  dear  friends,  and  some  start 
asunder  like  bitter  enemies.  This  is  not  to  reflect  on  Lucilla, 
but  to  excuse  myself  if  I  make  any  mistakes  in  transcribing 
the  Journal.  Now  let  her  go  on. — P.] 

Oscar's  wife  !  When  shall  I  be  Oscar's  wife  ?  I  have  not 
so  much  as  seen  him  yet.  Something — I  am  afraid  a  diffi- 
culty with  his  brother — still  keeps  him  on  the  Continent. 
The  tone  in  which  he  writes  continues  to  have  a  certain  re- 
serve in  it  which  disquiets  and  puzzles  me.  Am  I  quite  as 
happy  as  I  expected  to  be  when  I  recovered  my  sight? 
Not  yet ! 

It  is  not  Oscar's  fault  if  I  am  out  of  spirits  every  now  and 
then.  It  is  my  own  fault.  I  have  offended  my  father;  and 
I  sometimes  fear  I  have  not  acted  justly  toward  Madame  Pra- 
tolungo.  These  things  vex  me. 

It  seems  to  be  my  fate  to  be  always  misunderstood.'  My 
sudden  flight  from  the  rectory  meant  no  disrespect  to  my 
father.  I  left  as  I  did  because  I  was  incapable  of  facing  the 
woman  whom  I  had  once  dearly  loved — thinking  of  her  as  I 
think  now.  It  is  so  unendurable  to  feel  that  your  confidence 
is  lost  in  a  person  whom  you  once  trusted  without  limit,  and 
to  go  on  meeting  that  person  every  hour  in  the  day  with  a 
smooth  face,  as  if  nothing  had  happened !  The  impulse  to 
escape  more  meetings  (when  I  discovered  that  she  had  lelt 
the  house  for  a  walk)  was  irresistible.  I  should  do  it  again, 
if  I  was  in  the  same  position  again.  I  have  hinted  at  this  in 
writing  to  my  father;  telling  him  that  something  unpleasant 
had  happened  between  Madame  Pratolungo  and  me,  and  that 
I  went  away  so  suddenly  on  that  account  alone.  No  use ! 
He  has  not  answered  my  letter.  I  have  written  since  to  my 
step-mother.  Mrs.  Finch's  reply  has  informed  me  of  the  un- 
just manner  in  which  he  speaks  of  my  aunt.  Without  the 
slightest  reason  for  it,  he  is  even  more  deeply  offended  with 
Miss  Batchford  than  he  is  with  me ! 

Sad  as  this  estrangement  is,  there  is  one  consolation,  so  far 


»         POOR   MISS   FINCH.  351 

as  I  am  concerned :  it  will  not  last.  My  father  and  I  are 
sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  come  to  an  understanding  together. 
When  I  return  to  the  rectory  I  shall  make  my  peace  with 
him,  and  we  shall  get  on  again  as  smoothly  as  ever. 

But  how  will  it  end  between  Madame  Pratolungo  and  me? 

She  has  not  answered  the  letter  I  wrote  to  her.  (I  begin 
to  wish  I  had  never  written  it,  or  at  least  some  of  it — the  lat- 
ter part  of  it,  I  mean.)  I  have  heard  absolutely  nothing  of 
her  since  she  has  been  abroad.  I  don't  know  when  she  will 
return,  or  if  she  will  ever  return,  to  live  at  Diiuchurch  again. 
Oh,  what  would  I  not  give  to  have  this  dreadful  mystery 
cleared  up !  to  know  whether  I  ought  to  fall  down  on  my 
knees  before  her  and  beg  her  pardon,  or  whether  I  ought  to 
count  among  the  saddest  days  of  my  life  the  day  which 
brought  that  womati  to  live  with  me  as  companion  and 
friend  ? 

Have  I  acted  rashly,  or  have  I  acted  wisely? 

There  is  the  question  which  always  comes  to  me  and  tor- 
ments me  when  I  wake  in  the  night.  Let  me  look  again  (for 
the  fiftieth  time  at  least)  at  Oscar's  letter. 

[Note. — I  copy  the  letter.  Other  eyes  than  hers  ought  to 
see:it  in  this  place.  It  is  Nugent,  of  course,  who  here  writes 
in  Oscar's  character  and  in  Oscar's  name.  You  will  observe 
that  his  good  resolutions,  when  he  left  me,  held  out  as  far  as 
Paris,  and  then  gave  way,  as  follows. — P.] 

"Mr  OWN  DEAREST, — I  have  reached  Paris,  and  have  found 
my  first  opportunity  of  writing  to  you  since  I  left  Brown- 
down.  Madame  Pratolungo  has  no  doubt  told  you  that  a 
sudden  necessity  has  called  me  to  my  brother.  I  have  not 
yet  reached  the  place  at  which  I  am  to  meet  him.  Before  I 
meet  him,  let  me  tell  you  what  the  necessity  which  parted  us 
really  is.  Madame  Pratolungo  no  longer  possesses  my  con- 
fidence. When  you  have  read  on  a  little  farther,  she  will  no 
longer  possess  yours. 

"Alas,  my  love,  I  must  ama/c  you,  shock  you,  grieve  you — 
I  who  would  lay  down  my  life  for  your  happiness !  Let  me 
write  it  in  the  fewest  words.  I  have  made  a  terrible  discov- 
ery. Lucilla,  you  have  trusted  Madame  Pratolungo  as  your 
friend.  Trust  her  no  longer.  She  is  your  enemy,  and  mine  ! 


352  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

"I  suspected  her  some  time  since.  My  worst  suspicions 
have  been  confirmed. 

"Long  ere  this  I  ought  to  have  told  you  what  I  tell  you 
now.  But  I  shrink  from  distressing  you.  To  see  a  sad  look 
on  your  dear  face  breaks  my  heart.  It  is  only  when  I  am 
away  from  you — when  I  fear  the  consequences  if  you  are  not 
warned  of  your  danger — that  I  can  summon  the  courage  to 
tear  off  the  mask  from  that  woman's  false  face,  and  show  her 
to  you  as  she  really  is.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  enter  into 
details  in  the  space  of  a  letter;  I  reserve  all  particulars  until 
we  meet  again,  and  until  I  can  produce  what  you  have  a 
right  to  ask  for — proof  that  I  am  speaking  the  truth. 

"In  the  mean  while  I  beg  you  to  look  back  into  your 
own  thoughts,  to  recall  your  own  words,  on  the  day  when 
Madame  Pratolungo  offended  you  in  the  rectory  garden.  On 
that  occasion'the  truth  escaped  the  Frenchwoman's  lips — and 
she  knew  it ! 

"Do  you  remember  what  you  said  after  she  had  followed 
you  to  Browndown? — I  mean  after  she  had  declared  that  you 
would  have  fallen  in  love  with  my  brother  if  you  had  met 
him  first,  and  after  Nugent  (at  her  instigation  no  doubt)  had 
;taken  advantage  of  your  blindness  to  make  you  believe  that 
you  were  speaking  to  me.  When  you  were  smarting  under 
,the  insult,  and  when  you  had  found  out  the  trick,  what  did 
you  say? 

"  You  said  these — or  nearly  these — words : 

"'She  hated  you  from  the  first,  Oscar — she  took  up  with 
your  brother  directly  he  came  here.  Don't  marry  me  at 
Dimchurch  !  Find  out  some  place  that  they  don't  know  of! 
They  are  both  in  a  conspiracy  together  against  you  and 
against  me.  Take  care  of  them !  take  care  of  them  !' 

"Lucilla,  I  echo  your  own  words  to  you!  I  return  the 
warning — the  prophetic  warning — which  you  unconsciously 
gave  me  in  that  past  time.  I  am  afraid  my  unhappy  brother 
loves  you — and  I  know  for  certain  that  Madame  Pratolungo 
feels  the  interest  in  him  which  she  has  never  felt  in  me. 
What  you  said,  I  say.  They  are  in  a  conspiracy  together 
against  us.  Take  care  of  them  !  take  care  of  them  ! 

"When  we  meet  again  I  shall  be  prepared  to  defeat  the 
conspiracy.  Till  that  time  comes,  as  you  value  your  happi- 
ness and  mine,  don't  let  Madame  Pratolungo  suspect  that  you 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  353 

have  discovered  her.  It  is  she,  I  firmly  believe,  who  is  to 
blame.  I  am  going  to  my  brother — as  yon  will  now  under- 
stand— with  an  object  far  different  to  the  object  which  I  put 
forward  as  an  excuse  to  your  false  friend.  Fear  no  dispute 
between  Nugent  and  me.  I  know  him.  I  firmly  believe  that 
I  shall  find  that  he  has  been  tempted  and  misled.  I  answer 
— now  that  no  evil  influences  are  at  work  on  him — for  his 
acting  like  an  honorable  man,  and  deserving  your  pardon  and 
mine.  The  excuse  I  have  made  to  Madame  Pratolungo  will 
prevent  her  from  interfering  between  us.  That  was  my  one 
object  in  making  it. 

"  Keep  me  correctly  informed  of  your  movements  and  of 
hers.  I  inclose  an  address  to  which  you  can  write  with  the 
certainty  that  your  letters  will  be  forwarded. 

"On  my  side,  I  promise  to  write  constantly.  Once  more, 
don't  trust  a  living  creature  about  you  with  the  secret  which 
this  letter  reveals !  Expect  me  back  at  the  earliest  possible 
moment  to  free  you — with  a  husband's  authority — from  the 
woman  who  has  so  cruelly  deceived  us. 

"  Yours,  with  the  truest  affection,  the  fondest  love, 

"  OSCAR." 

[Note. — It  is  quite  needless  for  me  to  dwell  here  on  the 
devilish  cunning — I  can  use  no  other  phrase — which  inspired 
this  abominable  letter.  Look  back  to  the  twenty-seventh  and 
twenty-eighth  chapters,  and  you  will  see  how  skillfully  what 
I  said  in  a  moment  of  foolish  irritation,  and  what  Lucilla  said 
Avhen  she  too  had  lost  her  temper,  is  turned  to  account  to 
poison  her  mind  against  me.  We  are  made  innocently  to 
supply  our  enemy  with  the  foundation  on  which  he  builds 
his  plot.  For  the  rest,  the  letter  explains  itself.  Nugent 
still  persists  in  personating  his  brother.  He  guesses  easily 
at  the  excuse  I  should  make  to  Lucilla  for  his  absence ;  and 
he  gets  over  the  difficulty  of  appearing  to  have  confided  his 
errand  to  a  woman  whom  he  distrusts  by  declaring  that.he 
felt  it  necessary  to  deceive  me  as  to  what  the  nature  of  that 
errand  really  was.  As  the  Journal  proceeds  you  will  see  how 
dexterously  he  works  the  machinery  which  his  letter  has  set 
in  motion.  All  I  need  add  here,  in  the  way  of  explanation, 
is  that  the  delay  in  his  arrival  at  Kamsgate,  of  which  Lucilla 
complains,  was  caused  by  nothing  but  his  own  hesitation. 


3.34  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

His  sense  of  honor — as  I  know  from  discoveries  made  at  a 
later  time — was  not  entirely  lost  yet.  The  lower  he  sank, 
the  harder  his  better  nature  struggled  to  raise  him.  Noth- 
ing, positively  nothing,  but  his  own  remorse  need  have  kept 
him  at  Paris  (it  is  needless  to  say  that  he  never  stirred  far- 
ther, and  never  discovered  the  place  of  his  brother's  retreat) 
after  Lucilla  had  informed  him  by  letter  that  I  had  gone 
abroad,  and  that  she  was  at  Ramsgate  with  her  aunt.  I  have 
done :  let  Lucilla  go  on  again. — P.] 

I  have  read  Oscar's  letter  once  more. 

He  is  the  soul  of  honor ;  he  is  incapable  of  deceiving  me. 
I  remember  saying  what  he  tells  me  I  said,  and  thinking  it 
too — for  the  moment  only — when  I  was  beside  myself  with 
rage.  Still,  may  it  not  be  possible  that  appearances  have 
misled  Oscar?  Oh, Madame  Pratolungo!  I  had  such  a  high 

o  o 

opinion  of  yon,  I  loved  you  so  dearly — can  you  have  been 
unworthy  of  the  admiration  and  affection  that  you  once  in- 
spired in  me  ? 

I  quite  agree  with  Oscar  that  his  brother  is  not  to  blame. 
It  is  sad  and  shocking  that  Mr.  Nugent  Dtibourg  should  have 
allowed  himself  to  fall  in  love  with  me.  But  I  can  not  help 
pitying  him.  Poor  disfigured  man,  I  hope  he  will  get  a  good 
wife  !  How  he  must  have  suffered  ! 

It  is  impossible  to  endure  any  longer  my  present  state  of 
suspense.  Oscar  must  and  shall  satisfy  me  about  Madame 
Pratolungo — with  his  own  lips.  I  shall  write  to  him  by  this 
post,  and  insist  on  his  coming  to  Ramsgate. 

August  29. — I  wrote  to  him  yesterday,  to  the  address  in 
Paris.  My  letter  will  be  delivered  to-morrow.  Where  is  he  ? 
when  will  he  get  it? 

[Note. — That  innocent  letter  did  its  fatal  mischief.  It  end- 
•ed  the  struggle  against  himself  which  had  kept  Nugent  Du- 
bourg  in  Paris.  On  the  morning  when  he  received  it  he 
started  for  England.  Here  is  the  entry  in  Lucilla's  Journal. 
-P.] 

August  31. — A  telegram  for  me  at  breakfast-time.  I  am 
too  happy  to  keep  my  hand  steady ;  I  am  writing  horribly. 
It  doesn't  matter:  nothing  matters  but  my  telegram.  (Oh, 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  355 

what  .a  noble  creature  the  man  was  who  invented  telegrams !) 
Oscar  is  on  his  way  to  Kamsgate ! 


CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-THIRD. 

LUCILLA'S  JOURNAL,  CONTINUED. 

September  1. — I  am  composed  enough  to  return  to  my  Jour- 
nal, and  to  let  my  mind  dwell  a  little  on  all  that  I  have  thought 
and  felt  since  Oscar  has  been  here. 

Now  that  I  have  lost  Madame  Pratolungo,  I  have  no  friend 
with  whom  I  can  talk  over  my  little  secrets.  My  aunt  is  all 
that  is  kind  and  good  to  me ;  but  with  a  person  so  much  older 
than  I  am— who  has  lived  in  such  a  different  world  from  my 
world,  and  whose  ideas  seem  to  be  so  far  away  from  mine — 
how  can  I  talk  about  my  follies  and  extravagances,  and  ex- 
pect sympathy  in  return  !  My  one  confidential  friend  is  my 
Journal — I  can  only  talk,  about  myself  to  myself,  in  these 
pages.  My  position  feels  sometimes  like  a  very  lonely  one. 
I  saw  two  girls  telling  all  their  secrets  to  each  other  on  the 
sands  to-day — and  I  am  afraid  I  envied  them. 

Well,  my  dear  Journal,  how  did  I  feel — after  longing  for 
Oscar — when  Oscar  came  to  me? 

It  is  dreadful  to  own  it;  but  my  book  locks  up,  and  my 
book  can  be  trusted  with  the  truth.  I  felt  ready  to  cry — I 
was  so  unexpectedly,  so  horribly,  disappointed. 

No.  "  Disappointed  "  is  not  the  word.  I  can't  find  the 
word.  There  was  a  moment — I  hardly  dare  write  it:  it  seems 
so  atrociously  wicked — there  was  a  moment  when  I  almost 
wished  myself  blind  again. 

He  took  me  in  his  arms ;  he  held  my  hand  in  his.  IT  the 
time  when  I  was  blind,  how  I  should  have  felt  it!  how  the 
delicious  tingle  would  have  run  through  me  when  he  touched 
me !  Nothing  of  the  kind  happened  no\v.  He  might  have 
been  Oscar's  brother  for  all  the  effect  he  produced  on  me.  I 
have  myself  taken  his  hand  since,  and  shut  my  eyes  to  try 
and  renew  my  blindness,  and  put  myself  back  completely 
as  I  was  in  the  old  time.  The  same  result  still.  Nothing, 
nothing,  nothing ! 

Is  it  that  he  is  a  little  restrained  with  me,  on  his  side? 


356  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

He  certainly  is !  I  felt  it  the  moment  lie  came  into  the  room 
— I  have  felt  it  ever  since. 

No :  it  is  not  that.  In  the  old  time,  when  we  were  only 
beginning  to  love  each  other,  he  was  restrained  with  me. 
But  it  made  no  difference  then.  I  was  not  the  insensible 
creature  in  those  days,  that  I  have  become  since. 

I  can  only  account  for  it  in  one  way.  The  restoration  of 
my  sight  has  made  a  new  creature  of  me.  I  have  gained  a 
sense — I  am  no  longer  the  same  woman.  This  great  change 
must  have  had  some  influence  over  me  that  I  never  suspected 
until  Oscar  came  here.  Can  the  loss  of  my  sense  of  feeling 
be  the  price  that  I  have  paid  for  the  recovery  of  my  sense  of 
sight  ? 

When  Grosse  comes  next  I  shall  put  that  question  to  him. 

In  the  mean  while  I  have  had  a  second  disappointment. 
He  is  not  nearly  so  beautiful  as  I  thought  he  was  when  I  was 
blind. 

On  the  day  when  my  bandage  was  taken  off  for  the  first 
time  I  could  only  see  indistinctly.  When  I  ran  into  the  room 
at  the  rectory,  I  guessed  it  was  Oscar  rather  than  knew  it 
was  Oscar.  My  father's  gray  head  and  Mrs.  Finch's  woman's 
dress  would,  no  doubt,  have  helped  any  body  in  my  place  to 
fix,  as  I  did,  on  the  right  man.  But  this  is  all  different  now. 
I  can  see  his  features  in  detail,  and  the  result  is  (though  I 
won't  own  it  to  any  of  them)  that  I  find  my  idea  of  him  in 
the  days  of  my  blindness — oh,  so  unlike  the  reality  !  The 
one  thing  that  is  not  a  disappointment  to  me  is  his  voice. 
When  he  can  not  see  me  I  close  my  eyes  and  let  my  ears  feel 
the  old  charm  again — so  far. 

And  this  is  what  I  have  gained  by  submitting  to  the  oper- 
ation, and  enduring  my  imprisonment  in  the  darkened  room  ! 

What  am  I  writing?  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself ! 
Is  it  nothing  to  have  had  all  the  beauty  of  land  and  sea,  all 
the  glory  of  cloud  and  sunshine,  revealed  to  me?  Is  it  noth- 
ing to  be  able  to  look  at  my  fellow-creatures — to  see  the  bright 
faces  of  children  smile  at  me  when  I  speak  to  them  ?  Enough 
of  myself!  I  am  unhappy  and  ungrateful  when  I  think  of 
myself. 

Let  me  write  about  Oscar. 

My  aunt  approves  of  him.  She  thinks  him  handsome,  and 
says  he  has  the  manners  of  a  gentleman.  This  last  is  high 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  357 

praise  from  Miss  Batchford.  She  despises  the  present  gener- 
ation of  young  men.  "In  my  time,"  she  said  the  other  day, 
"I  used  to  see  young  gentlemen.  I  only  see  young  animals 
now  —  well-fed,  well- washed,  well-dressed;  riding  animals, 
rowing  animals,  betting  animals — nothing  more." 

Oscar,  on  his  side,  seems  to  like  Miss  Batchford  on  better 
acquaintance.  When  I  first  presented  him  to  her,  he  rather 
surprised  me  by  changing  color  and  looking  very  uneasy. 
He  is  almost  distressingly  nervous,  on  certain  occasions.  1 
suppose  my  aunt's  grand  manner  daunted  him. 

[Note. — I  really  must  break  in  here.  Her  aunt's  "grand 
manner"  makes  me  sick.  It  is  nothing  (between  ourselves) 
but  a  hook-nose  and  a  stiff  pair  of  stays.  What  daunted 
Nugent  Dubourg,  when  he  first  found  himself  in  the  old 
lady's  presence,  was  the  fear  of  discovery.  He  would,  no 
doubt,  have  learned  from  his  brother  that  Oscar  and  Miss 
Batchford  had  never  met.  You  will  see,  if  you  look  back, 
that  it  was,  in  the  nature  of  things,  impossible  they  should 
have  met.  But  is  it  equally  clear  that  Nugent  could  find 
out  beforehand  that  Miss  Batchford  had  been  left  in  igno- 
rance of  what  had  happened  at  Dimchurch  ?  He  could  do 
nothing  of  the  sort — he  could  feel  no  assurance  of  his  secu- 
rity from  exposure,  until  he  had  tried  the  ground  in  his  own 
proper  person  first.  The  risk  here  was  certainly  serious 
enough  to  make  even  Nugent  Dubourg  feel  uneasy.  And 
Lucilla  talks  of  her  aunt's  "  grand  manner !"  Poor  innocent ! 
I  leave  her  to  go  on. — P.] 

As  soon  as  my  aunt  left  us  together,  the  first  words  I  §aid 
to  Oscar  referred  (of  course)  to  his  letter  about  Madame  Pra- 
tolungo. 

He  made  a  little  sign  of  entreaty,  and  looked  distressed. 

"Why  should  we  spoil  the  pleasure  of  our  first  meeting 
by  talking  of  her?"  he  said.  "It  is  so  inexpressibly  painful 
to  you  and  to  me.  Let  us  return  to  it  in  a  day  or  two.  Not 
now,  Lucilla — not  now  !" 

His  brother  was  the  next  subject  in  my  mind.  I  was  not 
at  all  sure  how  he  would  take  my  speaking  about  it.  I  risk- 
ed a  question,  however,  for  all  that.  He  made  another  sign 
of  entreaty,  and  looked  distressed  again. 


358  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

"My  brother  and  I  understand  each  other,  Lucilla.  He  will 
remain  abroad  for  the  present.  Shall  we  drop  that  subject 
too?  Let  me  hear  your  own  news — I  want  to  know  what  is 
going  on  at  the  rectory.  I  have  heard  nothing  since  you 
wrote  me  word  that  you  were  here  with  your  aunt,  and  that 
Madame  Pratolungo  had  gone  abroad  to  her  father.  Is  Mr. 
Finch  well?  Is  he  coming  to  Ramsgate  to  see  you?" 

I  was  unwilling  to  tell  him  of  the  misunderstanding  at 

o  o 

home. 

"  I  have  not  heard  from  my  father  since  I  have  been  here," 
I  said.  "Now  you  have  come  back,  I  can  write  and  announce 
your  return,  and  get  all  the  news  from  the  rectory." 

He  looked  at  me  rather  strangely — in  a  way  which  led  me 
to  fear  that  he  saw  some  objection  to  my  writing  to  my 
father. 

"I  suppose  you  would  like  Mr.  Finch  to  come  here?"  he 
said ;  and  then  stopped  suddenly,  and  looked  at  me  again. 

"There  is  very  little  chance  of  his  coming  here,"  I  an- 
swered. 

Oscar  seemed  to  be  wonderfully  interested  about  my  fa- 
ther. "Very  little  chance?"  he  repeated.  "Why?" 

I  was  obliged  to  refer  to  the  family  quarrel — still,  however, 
saying  nothing  of  the  unjust  manner  in  which  my  father  had 
spoken  of  my  aunt. 

"As  long  as  I  am  with  Miss  Batehford,"  I  said,  "it  is  use- 
less to  hope  that  my  father  will  come  here.  They  are  on  bad 
terms;  and  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  prospect,  at  present,  of 
their  being  friends  again.  Do  you  object  to  my  writing 
home  to  say  you  have  come  to  Ramsgate?"  I  asked. 

"I!"  he  exclaimed,  looking  the  picture  of  astonishment. 
"What  could  possibly  make  you  think  that?  Write  by  all 
means  —  and  leave  a  little  space  for  me.  I  will  add  a  few 
lines  to  your  letter." 

It  is  impossible  to  say  how  his  answer  relieved  me.  It 
was  quite  plain  that  I  had  stupidly  misinterpreted  him.  Oh, 
my  new  eyes!  my  new  eyes!  shall  I  ever  be  able  to  depend 
on  you  as  I  could  once  depend  on  my  touch? 

[Note. — I  must  intrude  myself  again.  I  shall  burst  with 
indignation,  while  I  am  copying  the  Journal,  if  I  don't  relieve 
my  mind  at  certain  places  in  it.  Remark,  before  you  go  any 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  359 

fai'ther,  how  skillfully  Nugent  contrives  to  ascertain  his  ex- 
act position  at  Ramsgate,  and  see  with  what  a  fatal  una- 
nimity all  the  chances  of  his  personating  Oscar,  without  dis- 
covery, declare  themselves  in  his  favor !  Miss  Batchford,  as 
you  have  seen,  is  entirely  at  his  mercy.  She  not  only  knows 
nothing  herself,  but  she  operates  as  a  check  on  Mr. Finch,  who 
would  otherwise  have  joined  his  daughter  at  Ramsgate,  and 
have  instantly  exposed  the  conspiracy.  On  every  side  of 
him  Nugent  is,  to  all  appearance,  safe.  I  am  away  in  one  di- 
rection. Oscar  is  away  in  another.  Mrs.  Finch  is  anchored 
immovably  in  her  nursery.  Zillah  has  been  sent  back  from 
London  to  the  rectory.  The  Dimchurch  doctor  (who  attend- 
ed Oscar,  and  who  might  have  proved  an  awkward  witness) 
is  settled  in  India,  as  you  will  see,  if  you  refer  to  the  twenty- 
second  chapter.  The  London  doctor  with  whom  he  consult- 
ed has  long  since  ceased  to  have  any  relations  with  his  former 
patient.  As  for  Herr  Grosse,  if  he  appears  on  the  scene,  he 
can  be  trusted  to  shut  his  eyes  professionally  to  all  that  is 
going  on,  and  to  let  matters  take  their  course  in  the  only  in- 
terest he  recognizes — the  interest  of  Lucilla's  health.  There 
is  literally  no  obstacle  in  Nugent's  way;  and  no  sort  of  pro- 
tection for  Lucilla,  except  in  the  faithful  instinct  which  per- 
sists in  warning  her  that  this  is  the  wrong  man — though  it 
speaks  in  an  unknown  tongue1.  Will  she  end  in  understand- 
ing the  warning  before  it  is  too  late?  My  friend,  this  note 
is  intended  to  relieve  my  mind — not  yours.  All  you  have  to 
do  is  to  read  on.  Here  is  the  Journal.  I  won't  stand  another 
moment  in  your  way. — P.] 

September  2. — A  rainy  day.  Very  little  said  that  is  worth 
recording  between  Oscar  and  me. 

My  aunt,  whose  spirits  are  always  affected  by  bad  weather, 
kept  me  a  long  time  in  her  sitting-room,  amusing  herself  by 
making  me  exercise  my  sight.  Oscar  was  present  by  special 
invitation,  and  assisted  the  old  lady  in  setting  this  new  see- 
ing-sense  of  mine  all  sorts  of  tasks.  He  tried  hard  to  prevail 
on  me  to  let  him  see  my  writing.  I  refused.  It  is  improv- 
ing as  fast  as  it  can ;  but  it  is  not  good  enough  yet. 

I  notice  here  what  a  dreadfully  difficult  thing  it  is  to  get 
back — in  such  a  case  as  mine — to  the  exercise  of  one's  sight. 

We  have  a  cat  and  a  dosr  in  the  house.    Would  it  be  cred- 


300  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

ited,  if  I  was  telling  it  to  the  world  instead  of  telling  it  to 
my  Journal,  that  I  actually  mistook  one  for  the  other  to-day  ? 
— after  seeing  so  well,  too,  as  I  do  now,  and  being  able  to 
write  with  so  few  false  strokes  in  making  my  letters !  It  is 
nevertheless  true  that  I  did  mistake  the  two  animals;  having 
trusted  to  nothing  but  my  memory  to  inform  my  eyes  which 
was  which,  instead  of  helping  my  memory  by  my  touch.  1 
have  now  set  this  right.  I  caught  up  puss,  and  shut  my  eyes 
(oh,  that  habit!  when  shall  I  get  over  it?), and  felt  her  soft 
fur  (so  different  from  a  dog's  hair !),  and  opened  my  eyes 
again,  and  associated  the  feel  of  it  forever  afterward  with  the 
sight  of  a  cat. 

To-day's  experience  has  also  informed  me  that  I  make 
slow  progress  in  teaching  myself  to  judge  correctly  of  dis- 
tances. 

In  spite  of  this  drawback,  however,  there  is  nothing  I  en- 
joy so  much  in  using  my  sight  as  looking  at  a  great  wide 
prospect  of  any  kind — provided  I  am  not  asked  to  judge  how 
far  or  how  near  objects  may  be.  It  seems  like  escaping  out 
of  prison  to  look  (after  having  been  shut  up  in  my  blindness) 
at  the  long  curve  of  the  beach,  and  the  bold  promontory  of 
the  pier,  and  the  grand  sweep  of  the  sea  beyond — all  visible 
from  our  windows.  The  moment  my  aunt  begins  to  ques- 
tion me  about  distances  she  makes  a  toil  of  my  pleasure.  It 
is  worse  still  when  I  am  asked  about  the  relative  sizes  of 
ships  and  boats.  When  I  sec  nothing  but  a  boat  I  fancy  it 
larger  than  it  is.  When  I  see  the  boat  in  comparison  with 
a  ship,  and  then  look  back  at  the  boat,  I  instantly  go  to 
the  other  extreme,  and  fancy  it  smaller  than  it  is.  The  set- 
ting this  right  still  vexes  me  almost  as  keenly  as  my  stupid- 
ity vexed  me  some  time  since  when  I  saw  my  first  horse  and 
cart  from  an  upper  window,  and  took  it  for  a  dog  drawing  a 
wheelbarrow!  Let  me  add  in  my  own  defense  that  both 
horse  and  cart  were  figured  at  least  five  times  their  proper 
size  in  my  blind  fancy — which  makes  my  mistake,  I  think, 
not  so  very  stupid,  after  all. 

Well,  I  amused  my  aunt.  And  what  effect  did  I  produce 
on  Oscar? 

If  I  could  trust  my  eyes,  I  should  say  I  produced  exactly 
the  contrary  effect  on  him — I  made  him  melancholy.  But  I 
don't  trust  my  eyes.  They  must  be  deceiving  me  when  they 


POOR   MiS3   FINCH.  301 

tell  me  that  he  looked,  in  ray  company,  a  moping,  anxious, 
miserable  man. 

Or  is  it  that  he  sees  and  feels  something  changed  in  Me  ? 

o  0 

I  could  scream  with  vexation  and  rage  against  myself.  Here 
is  my  Oscar — and  yet  he  is  not  the  Oscar  I  knew  when  I  was 
blind.  Contradictory  as  it  seems,  I  used  to  understand  how 
he  looked  at  me  when  I  was  unable  to  see  it.  Now  that  I 
can  see  it,  I  ask  myself,  Is  this  really  love  that  is  looking  at 
me  in  his  eyes?  or  is  it  something  else?  How  should  I 
know  ?  I  knew  when  I  had  only  my  own  fancy  to  tell  me. 
But  now,  try  as  I  may,  I  can  not  make  the  old  fancy  and  the 
new  sight  to  serve  me  in  harmony  both  together.  I  am 
afraid  he  sees  that  I  don't  understand  him.  Oh  dear !  dear ! 
why  did  I  not  meet  rny  good  old  Grosse,  and  become  the  new 
creature  that  he  has  made  me,  before  I  met  Oscar?  I  should 
have  had  no  blind  memories  and  prepossessions  to  get  over 
then.  I  shall  become  used  to  my  new  self,  I  hope  and  be- 
lieve, with  time — and  that  will  accustom  me  to  my  new  im- 
pressions of  Oscar — and  so  it  may  all  come  right  in  the  end. 
It  is  all  wrong  enough  now.  He  put  his  arm  round  me,  and 
gave  me  a  little  tender  squeeze,  while  we  were  following  Miss 
Batch  ford  dcwn  to  the  dining-room  this  afternoon.  Nothing 
in  me  answered  to  it.  I  should  have  felt  it  all  over  me  a  few 
months  since. 

Here  is  a  tear  on  the  paper.  What  a  fool  I  am?  Why 
can't  I  write  about  something  else? 

I  sent  my  second  letter  to  my  father  to-day,  telling  him 
of  Oscar's  return  from  abroad,  and  taking  no  notice  of  his  not 
having  replied  to  my  first  letter.  The  only  way  to  manage 
my  father  is  not  to  take  notice,  and  to  let  him  come  right  by 
himself.  I  showed  Oscar  my  letter,  with  a  space  left  at  the 
end  for  his  postscript.  While  he  was  writing  it  he  asked  me 
to  get  something  which  happened  to  be  np  stairs  in  my 
room.  When  I  came  back  he  had  sealed  the  envelope,  forget  - 
tins;  to  show  me  his  postscript.  It  was  not  worth  while  to 
open  the  letter  again ;  he  told  me  what  he  had  written,  and 
that  did  just  as  well. 

[Note. — I  must  trouble  you  with  a  copy  of  what  Nugent 
really  did  write.  It  shows  why  he  sent  her  out  of  the  room, 
and  closed  the  envelope  before  she  could  come  back.  The 

Q 


302  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

postscript  is  also  worthy  of  notice,  in  this  respect — th.-it  it 
plays  a  part  in  a  page  of  my  narrative  which  is  still  to  come. 
Thus  Nugent  writes,  in  Oscar's  name  and  character,  to  the 
rector  ofDimchurch.  (He  would  find  the  imitation  of  his 
brother's  handwriting  no  obstacle  in  his  way.  A  close  simi- 
larity of  handwritings  was — as  I  have,  I  think,  already  men- 
tioned— one  among  the  other  striking  points  of  resemblance 
between  the  twins.) 

"DEAR  MR.  FINCH, — Lucilla's  letter  will  have  told  you 
that  I  have  come  to  my  senses,  and  that  I  am  again  paying 
my  addresses  to  her  as  her  affianced  husband.  My  principal 
object  in  adding  these  lines  is  to  propose  that  we  should  for- 
get the  past,  and  go  on  again  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"Nugent  has  behaved  nobly.  He  absolves  me  from  the 
engagements  toward  him  into  which  I  so  rashly  entered  at 
our  last  interview  before  I  left  Browndown.  Most  generous- 
ly and  amply  he  has  redeemed  his  pledge  to  Madame  Prato- 
lungo  to  discover  the  place  of  my  retreat  and  to  restore  me 
to  Lucilla.  For  the  present  he  remains  abroad. 

"If  you  favor  me  with  a  reply  to  this,  I  must  warn  you  to 
be  careful  how  you  write;  for  Lucilla  is  sure  to  ask  to  see 
your  letter.  Remember  that  she  only  supposes  me  to  have 
returned  to  her  after  a  brief  absence  from  England,  caused 
by  a  necessity  for  joining  my  brother  on  the  Continent.  It 
will  be  also  desirable  to  say  nothing  on  the  subject  of  my 
unfortunate  peculiarity  of  complexion.  I  have  made  it  all 
right  with  Lucilla,  and  she  is  getting  accustomed  to  me. 
Still,  the  subject  is  a  sore  one,  and  the  less  it  is  referred  to 
the  better.  Truly  yours,  OSCAR." 

Unless  I  add  a  word  of  explanation  here,  you  will  hardly 
appreciate  the  extraordinary  skillfulness  with  which  the  de- 
ception is  continued  by  means  of  this  postscript. 

Written  in  Oscar's  character  (and  representing  Nugent 
as  having  done  all  that  he  had  promised  me  to  do),  it  design- 
edly omits  the  customary  courtesy  of  Oscar's  style.  The 
object  of'this  is  to  offend  Mr.  Finch — with  what  end  in  view 
you  will  presently  see.  The  rector  was  the  last  man  in  ex- 
istence to  dispense  with  the  necessary  apologies  and  expres- 
sions of  regret  from  a  man  engaged  to  his  daughter,  who  had 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  363 

left  her  as  Oscar  had  left  her — no  matter  how  the  circum- 
stances might  appear  to  excuse  him.  The  curt,  off-hand 
postscript  signed  "Oscar"  was  the  very  thing  to  exasperate 
the  wound  already  inflicted  on  Mr.  Finch's  self-esteem,  and 
to  render  it  at  least  probable  that  he  would  reconsider  his 
intention  of  himself  performing  the  marriage  ceremony.  In 
the  event  of  his  refusal,  what  would  happen  ?  A  stranger, 
entirely  ignorant  of  which  was  Nugent  and  which  was  Oscar, 
would  officiate  in  his  place.  Do  you  see.  it  now? 

But  even  the  cleverest  people  are  not  always  capable  of 
providing  for  every  emergency.  The  completes!  plot  gen- 
erally has  its  weak  place. 

The  postscript,  as  you  have  seen,  was  a  little  masterpiece. 
But  it  nevertheless  exposed  the  writer  to  a  danger  which 
(as  the  Journal  will  tell  you)  he  only  appreciated  at  its  true 
value  when  it  was  too  late  to  alter  his  mind.  Finding  him- 
self forced,  for  the  sake  of  appearances,  to  permit  Lucilla  tc 
inform  her  father  of  his  arrival  at  Ramsgale,  he  was  now 
obliged  to  run  the  risk  of  having  that  important  piece  of 
domestic  news  communicated — either  by  Mr.  Finch  or  by  his 
wife — to  no  less  a  person  than  myself.  You  will  remember 
that  worthy  Mrs.  Finch,  when  we  parted  at  the  rectory,  had 
asked  me  to  write  to  her  while  I  was  abroad — and  you  will 
see,  after  the  hint  I  have  given  you,  that  clever  Mr.  Nugent 
is  beginning  already  to  walk  upon  delicate  ground.  I  say  no 
more:  Lucilla's  turn  now. — P.] 

September  3. — Oscar  has  (I  suppose)  forgotten  something 
which  he  ought  to  have  included  in  his  postscript  to  my  letter. 

More  than  two  hours  after  I  had  sent  it  to  the  post  he 
asked  if  the  letter  had  gone.  For  the  moment  he  looked  an- 
noyed when  I  said,  Yes.  But  he  soon  recovered  himself. 
It  mattered  nothing  (he  said) ;  he  could  easily  write  again. 
"Talking  of  letters,"  he  added,  "  do  you  expect  Madame 
Pratolungo  to  write  to  you?"  (This  time  it  was  he  who  re- 
ferred to  her!)  I  told  him  that  there  was  itot  much  chance, 
after  what  had  passed  on  her  side  and  on  mine,  of  her  writing 
to  me — and  then  tried  to  put  some  of  those  questions  about 
her  which  he  had  once  already  requested  me  not  to  press 
yet.  For  the  second  time  he  entreated  me  to  defer  the  dis- 
cussion of  that  unpleasant  subject  for  thy  present — and  yet, 


364  POOK    MISS    FINCH. 

with  a  curious  inconsistency,  lie  made  another  inquiry  relating 
to  the  subject  in  the  same  breath. 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  likely  to  be  in  correspondence  with 
your  father  or  your  step-mother  while  she  is  out  of  England?" 
he  asked. 

"I  should  doubt  her  writing  to  my  father,"  I  said.  "But 
she  might  correspond  with  Mrs.  Finch." 

He  considered  a  little,  and  then  turned  the  talk  to  the 
topic  of  our  residence  at  Ramsgate  next. 

"  How  long  do  you  stay  here  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  It  depends  on  Herr  Grosse,"  I  answered.  "  I  will  ask 
him  when  he  comes  next." 

He  turned  away  to  the  window — suddenly,  as  if  he  was  a 
little  put  out. 

"Are  you  tired  of  Ramsgate  already?"  I  asked. 

He  came  back  to  me  and  took  my  hand — my  cold,  insensi- 
ble hand,  that  won't  feel  his  touch  as  it  ought ! 

"Let  me  be  your  husband,  Lucilla,"  he  whispered ;  "and  I 
will  live  at  Ramsgate  if  you  like — for  your  sake." 

Although  there  was  every  thing  to  please  me  in  those 
words,  there  was  something  that  startled  me — I  can  not  de- 
scribe it — in  his  look  and  manner  when  he  said  them.  I  made 
no  answer  at  the  moment.  He  went  on. 

"Why  should  we  not  be  married  at  once?"  he  asked. 
"  We  are  both  of  age.  We  have  only  ourselves  to  think  of." 

[Note. — Alter  his  words  as  follows :  "  Why  should  we  not 
be  married  before  Madame  Pratolungo  can  hear  of  my  ar- 
rival at  Ramsgate?" — and  you  will  rightly  interpret  his  mo- 
tives. The  situation  is  now  fast  reaching  its  climax  of  peril. 
Nugent's  one  chance  is  to  persuade  Lucilla  to  marry  him 
before  any  discoveries  can  reach  my  ears,  and  before  Grosse 
considers  her  sufficiently  recovered  to  leave  Ramsgate. — P.] 

"You  forget,"  I  answered,  more  surprised  than  ever:  "we 
have  my  father  to  think  of.  It  was  always  arranged  that  he 
was  to  marry  us  at  Dimchurch." 

Oscar  smiled — not  at  all  the  charming  smile  I  used  to  im- 
agine when  I  was  blind  ! 

"We  shall  wait  a  long  time,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "if  we 
wait  until  vour  father  marries  us." 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  365 

"  What  do  you  moan  ?"  I  asked. 

"When  we  enter  on  the  painful  subject  of  Madame  Pra- 
tolungo,"  he  replied,  "  I  will  tell  you.  In  the  mean  time,  do 
you  think  Mr.  Finch  will  answer  your  letter?" 

"  I  hope  so." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  answer  my  postscript?" 

"  I  am  sure  he  will !" 

The  same  unpleasant  smile  showed  itself  again  in  his  face. 
He  abruptly  dropped  the  conversation,  and  went  to  play 
piquet  with  my  aunt. 

All  this  happened  yesterday  evening.  I  went  to  bed,  sad- 
ly dissatisfied  with  somebody.  Was  it  with  Oscar?  or  with 
myself?  or  with  both  ?  I  fancy  with  both. 

To-day  we  went  out  together  for  a  walk  on  the  cliffs. 
What  a  delight  it  was  to  move  through  the  fresh  briny  air, 
and  see  the  lovely  sights  on  every  side  of  rne  !  Oscar  enjoyed 
it  too.  All  through  the  first  part  of  our  walk  he  was  charm- 
ing, and  I  was  more  in  love  with  him  than  ever.  On  our 
return  a  little  incident  occurred  which  altered  him  for  the 
worse,  and  which  made  my  spirits  sink  again. 

It  happened  in  this  way. 

I  proposed  returning  by  the  sands.  Ramsgate  is  still 
crowded  with  visitors;  and  the  animated  scene  on  the  beach 
in  the  later  part  of  the  day  has  attractions  for  me,  after  my 
blind  life,  which  it  docs  not  (I  dare  say)  possess  for  people 
who  have  always  enjoyed  the  use  of  their  eyes.  Oscar,  who 
has  a  nervous  horror  of  crowds,  and  who  shrinks  from  contact 
with  people  not  so  refined  as  himself,  svas  surprised  at  my 
wishing  to  mix  with  what  he  called  "the  mob  on  the  sands." 
However,  he  said  he  would  go  if  I  particularly  wished  it.  I 
did  particularly  wish  it.  So  we  went. 

There  were  chairs  on  the  beach.  We  hired  two,  and  sat 
down  to  look  about  us. 

All  sorts  of  diversions  were  going  on.  Monkeys,  organs, 
girls  on  stilts,  a  conjurer,  and  a  troop  of  negro  minstrels  were 
all  at  work  to  amuse  the  visitors.  I  thought  the  varied  color 
and  bustling  enjoyment  of  the  crowd,  with  the  bright  blue 
sea  beyond  and  the  glorious  sunshine  overhead,  quite  de- 
lightful— I  declare  I  felt  as  if  two  eyes  were  not  half  enough 
to  see  with  !  A  nice  old  lady,  sitting  near,  entered  into  con- 
versation with  me,  hospitably  offering  me  biscuits  and  sherry 


366  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

out  of  her  own  bag.  Oscar,  to  ray  disappointment,  looked 
quite  disgusted  with  all  of  us.  He  thought  my  nice  old  lady 
vulgar,  and  he  called  the  company  on  the  beach  "  a  herd  of 
snobs."  While  he  was  still  muttering  under  his  breath  about 
the  "  mixture  of  low  people,"  he  suddenly  cast  a  side-look  at 
some  person  or  thing — I  could  not  at  the  moment  tell  which 
— and,  rising,  placed  himself  so  as  to  intercept  my  view  of 
the  promenade  on  the  sands  immediately  before  me.  I 
happened  to  have  noticed,  at  the  same  moment,  a  lady  ap- 
proaching us  in  a  dress  of  a  peculiar  color;  and  I  pulled  Os- 
car on  one  side,  to  look  at  her  as  she  passed  in  front  of  me. 
"  Why  do  you  get  in  my  way  ?"  I  asked.  Before  he  could 
answer  the  question  the  lady  passed,  with  two  lovely  chil- 
dren, and  with  a  tall  man  at  her  side.  My  eyes,  looking  first 
at  the  lady  and  the  children,  found  their  way  next  to  the 
gentleman — and  saw,  repeated  in  his  face,  the  same  black- 
blue  complexion  which  had  startled  me  in  the  face  of  Oscar's 
brother  when  I  first  opened  my  eyes  at  the  rectory !  For 
the  moment  I  felt  startled  again — more,  as  I  believe,  by  the 
unexpected  repetition  of  the  blue  face  in  the  face  of  a  stran- 
ger than  by  the  ugliness  of  the  complexion  itself.  At  any 
rate,  I  was  composed  enough  to  admire  the  lady's  dress  and 
the  beauty  of  the  children  before  they  had  passed  beyond  my 
range  of  view.  Oscar  spoke  to  me,  while  I  was  looking  at 
them,  in  a  tone  of  reproach,  for  which,  as  I  thought,  there  was 
no  occasion  and  no  excuse. 

"  I  tried  to  spare  you,"  he  said.  "  You  have  yourself  to 
thank,  if  that  man  has  frightened  you." 

"He  has  not  frightened  me,"  I  answered — sharply  enough. 

Oscar  looked  at  me  very  attentively,  and  sat  down  again 
without  saying  a  word  more. 

The  good-humored  old  woman  on  my  other  side,  who  had 
seen  and  heard  all  that  had  passed,  began  to  talk  of  the  gen- 
tleman with  the  discolored  face,  and  of  the  lady  and  the 
children  who  accompanied  him.  He  was  a  retired  Indian 
officer,  she  said.  The  lady  was  his  wife,  and  the  two  beauti- 
ful children  were  his  own  children.  "It  seems  a  pity  that 
such  a  handsome  man  should  be  disfigured  in  that  way,"  my 
new  acquaintance  remarked.  "But  still  it  don't  matter 
much,  after  all.  There  he  is,  as  you  see,  with  a  fine  woman 
for  a  wife,  and  with  two  lovely  children.  I  know  the  land- 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  367 

lady  of  the  house  where  they  lodge — and  a  happier  family 
you  couldn't  lay  your  hand  on  in  all  England.  That  is  my 
friend's  account  of  them.  Even  a  blue  face  don't  seem  such 
a  dreadful  misfortune,  when  you  look  at  it  in  that  light — 
does  it,  miss?" 

I  entirely  agreed  with  the  old  lady.  Our  talk  seemed,  for 
some  incomprehensible  reason,  to  irritate  Oscar.  He  got  up 
again  impatiently,  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Your  aunt  will  be  wondering  what  has  become  of  us," 
he  said.  "Surely  you  have  had  enough  of  the  mob  on  the 
sands  by  this  time  !" 

I  had  not  had  enough  of  it,  and  I  should  have  been  quite 
content  to  have  made  one  of  the  mob  for  some  time  longer. 

o 

But  I  saw  that  Oscar  would  be  seriously  vexed  if  I  persisted 
in  keeping  my  place.  So  I  took  leave  of  my  nice  old  lady, 
and  lel't  the  pleasant  sands — not  very  willingly. 

He  said  nothing  more  until  we  had  threaded  our  way  out 
of  the  crowd.  Then  he  returned,  without  any  reason  for  it 
that  I  could  discover,  to  the  subject  of  the  Indian  officer,  and 
to  the  remembrance  which  the  stranger's  complexion  must 
have  awakened  in  me  of  his  brother's  face. 

"  I  don't  understand  your  telling  me  you  were  not  fright- 
ened when  you  saw  that  man,"  he  said.  "  You  were  terribly 
frightened  by  my  brother  when  you  first  saw  him." 

"  I  was  terribly  frightened  by  my  own  imagination  before 
I  saw  him,"  I  answered.  '•'•After  I  saw  him  I  soon  got  over 
it." 

"  So  you  say,"  he  rejoined. 

There  is  something  excessively  provoking — at  least  to  me 
— in  being  told  to  my  face  that  I  have  said  something  which 
is  not  worthy  of  belief.  It  was  not  a  very  becoming  act  on 
my  part  (after  what  he  had  told  me  in  his  letter  about  his 
brother's  infatuation)  to  mention  his  brother.  I  ought  not 
to  have  done  it.  I  did  it,  for  all  that. 

"I  say  what  I  mean,"  I  replied.  "Before  I  knew  what 
you  told  me  about  your  brother  I  was  going  to  propose  to 
you,  for  your  sake  and  for  his,  that  he  should  live  with  us 
after  we  were  married." 

Oscar  suddenly  stopped.  He  had  given  me  his  arm  to 
lead  me  through  the  crowd — he  dropped  it  now. 

"  You  say  that  because  you  are  angry  with  me !"  he  said. 


368  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

I  denied  being  angry  with  him ;  I  declared  once  more  that 
I  was  only  speaking  the  truth. 

"You  really  mean,"  he  went  on,  "that  you  could  have 
lived  comfortably  with  my  brother's  blue  face  before  you 
every  hour  of  the  day  ?" 

"  Quite  comfortably — if  he  would  have  been  my  brother 
too." 

Oscar  pointed  to  the  house  in  which  my  aunt  and  I  are 
living — within  a  few  yards  of  the  place  on  which  we  stood. 

"You  are  close  at  home,"  he  said,  speaking  in  an  odd, 
muffled  voice,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  "  I  want  a  lon- 
ger Avalk.  We  shall  meet  at  dinner-time." 

He  left  me  —  without  looking  up,  and  without  saying  a 
word  more. 

Jealous  of  his  brother !  There  is  something  unnatural, 
something  degrading,  in  such  jealousy  as  that.  I  am 
ashamed  of  myself  for  thinking  it  of  him.  And  yet  what 
else  could  his  conduct  mean  ? 

[Note. — It  is  for  me  to  answer  that  question.  Give  the 
miserable  wretch  his  due.  His  conduct  meant,  in  one  plain 
word  —  remorse.  The  only  excuse  left  that  he  could  make 
to  his  own  conscience  for  the  infamous  part  which  he  was 
playing  was  this — that  his  brother's  personal  disfigurement 
presented  a  fatal  obstacle  in  the  way  of  his  brother's  mar- 
riage. And  now  Lucilla's  own  words,  Lucilla's  own  actions, 
had  told  him  that  Oscar's  face  was  no  obstacle  to  her  seeing 
Oscar  perpetually  in  the  familiar  intercourse  of  domestic 
life.  The  torture  of  self-reproach  which  this  discovery  in- 
flicted on  him  drove  him  out  of  her  presence.  His  own  lips 
would  have  betrayed  him  if  he  had  spoken  a  word  more  to 
her  at  that  moment.  This  is  no  speculation  of  mine.  I 
know  what  I  am  now  writing  to  be  the  truth. — P.] 

It  is  night  again.  I  am  in  my  bedroom — too  nervous  and 
too  anxious  to  go  to  rest  yet.  Let  me  employ  myself  in  fin- 
ishing this  private  record  of  the  events  of  the  day. 

Oscar  came  a  little  before  dinner-time,  haggard  and  pale, 
and  so  absent  in  mind  that  he  hardly  seemed  to  know  what 
he  was  talking  about.  No  explanations  passed  between  us. 
He  asked  my  pardon  for  the  hard  things  lie  had  said,  and 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  369 

the  ill-temper  he  had  shown  earlier  in  the  day.  I  readily 
accepted  his  excuses,  and  did  my  best  to  conceal  the  un- 
easiness which  his  vacant,  preoccupied  manner  caused  me. 
All  the  time  he  was  speaking  to  me  he  was  plainly  think 
ing  of  something  else  —  he  was  more  unlike  the  Oscar  of 
my  blind  remembrances  than  ever.  It  was  the  old  voice 
talking  in  a  new  way :  I  can  only  describe  it  to  myself  in 
those  terms. 

As  for  his  manner,  I  know  it  used  to  be  always  more  or 
less  quiet  and  retiring  in  the  old  days ;  but  was  it  ever  so 
hopelessly  subdued  and  depressed  as  I  have  seen  it  to-day? 
Useless  to  ask !  In  the  by-gone  time  I  was  not  able  to  see 
it.  My  past  judgment  of  him  and  my  present  judgment  of 
him  have  been  arrived  at  by  such  totally  different  means 
that  it  seems  useless  to  compare  them.  Oh,  how  I  miss 
Madame  Pratolungo!  What  a  relief,  what  a  consolation  it 
would  have  been  to  have  said  all  this  to  her,  and  to  have 
heard  what  she  thought  of  it  in  return  ! 

There  is,  however,  a  chnnce  of  my  finding  my  way  out  of 
some  of  my  perplexities,  at  any  rate — if  I  can  only  wait  till 
to-morrow. 

Oscar  seems  to  have  made  up  his  mind  at  last  to  enter  into 
the  explanations  which  he  has  hitherto  withheld  from  me. 
He  has  asked  me  to  give  him  a  private  interview  in  the 
morning.  The  circumstances  which  led  to  his  making  this 
request  have  highly  excited  my  curiosity.  Something  is  ev- 
idently going  on  under  the  surface,  in  which  my  interests 
are  concerned — and  possibly  Oscar's  interests  too. 

It  all  came  about  in  this  way. 

On  returning  to  the  house  after  Oscar  had  left  me,  I  found 
that  a  letter  from  Grosse  had  arrived  by  the  afternoon  post. 
My  dear  old  surgeon  wrote  to  say  that  he  was  coming  to 
see  me — and  added  in  a  postscript  that  he  would  arrive  the 
next  day  at  luncheon-time.  Past  experience  told  me  that 
this  meant  a  demand  on  my  aunt's  housekeeping  for  all  the 
good  things  that  it  could  produce.  (Ah,  dear !  I  thought  of 
Madame  Pratolungo  and  the  Mayonnaise.  Will  those  times 
never  come  again  ?)  Well— at  dinner  I  announced  Grosse's 
visit,  adding  significantly,  "at  luncheon-time." 

My  aunt  looked  up  from  her  plate  with  a  little  start— not 
interested,  as  I  was  prepared  to  hear,  in  the  serious  question 

Q2 


370  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

of  luncheon,  but  in  the  opinion  which  my  medical  adviser 
was  likely  to  give  of  the  state  of  my  health. 

"I  am  anxious  to  hear  what  Mr.  Grosse  says  about  you 
to-morrow,"  the  old  lady  began.  "  I  shall  insist  on  his  giv- 
ing me  a  far  more  complete  report  of  you  than  he  gave  last 
time.  The  recovery  of  your  sight  appears  to  me,  ray  dear, 
to  be  quite  complete." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  be  cured,  aunt,  because  you  want  to 
get  away  ?"  I  asked.  "  Are  you  weary  of  Ramsgate  ?" 

Miss  Batchford's  quick  temper  flashed  at  me  out  of  Miss 
Batchford's  bright  old  eyes. 

"  I  am  weary  of  keeping  a  letter  of  yours,"  she  burst  out, 
with  n  look  of  disgust. 

"  A  letter  of  mine  !"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes.  A  letter  which  is  only  to  be  given  to  you  when 
Mr.  Grosse  pronounces  that  you  are  quite  yourself  again." 

Oscar — who  had  not  taken  the  slightest  interest  in  the 
conversation  thus  far — suddenly  stopped,  with  his  fork  half- 
way to  his  mouth,  changed  color,  and  looked  eagerly  at  my 
aunt. 

"What  letter?"  I  asked.  "Who  gave  it  to  you?  Why 
am  I  not  to  see  it  until  I  am  quite  myself  again  ?" 

Miss  Batchford  obstinately  shook  her  head  three  times  in 
answer  to  those  three  questions. 

"  I  hate  secrets  and  mysteries,"  she  said,  impatiently. 
"This  is  a  secret  and  a  mystery — and  I  long  to  have  done 
with  it.  That  is  all.  I  have  said  too  much  already.  I 
shall  say  no  more." 

All  my  entreaties  were  of  no  avail.  My  aunt's  quick  tem- 
per had  evidently  led  her  into  committing  an  imprudence  of 
some  sort.  Having  done  that,  she  was  now  provokingly  de- 
termined not  to  make  bad  worse.  Nothing  that  I  could  say 
would  induce  her  to  open  her  lips  on  the  subject  of  the  mys- 
terious letter.  "Wait  till  Mr.  Grosse  comes  to-morrow. " 
That  was  the  only  reply  I  could  get. 

As  for  Oscar,  this  little  incident  appeared  to  have  an  ef- 
fect on  him  which  added  immensely  to  the  curiosity  that  my 
aunt  had  roused  in  me. 

He  listened  with  breathless  attention  while  I  was  trying 
to  induce  Miss  Batchford  to  answer  my  questions.  When  I 
gave  it  up  ho  pushed  a  way  his  plate  and  ate  no  more.  On 


POOB   MISS   FINCH.  371 

the  other  hand  (though  generally  the  most  temperate  of 
men),  he  drank  a  great  deal  of  wine,  both  at  dinner  and  aft- 
er. In  the  evening  he  made  so  many  mistakes  in  playing 
cards  with  my  aunt  that  she  dismissed  him  from  the  game 
in  disgrace.  He  sat  in  a  corner  for  the  rest  of  the  time,  pre- 
tending to  listen  while  I  was  playing  the  piano — really  lost 
to  me  and  my  music ;  buried,  fathoms  deep,  in  some  uneasy 
thoughts  of  his  own. 

When  he  took  his  leave  he  whispered  these  words  in  my 
ear,  anxiously  pressing  my  hand  while  he  spoke: 

"  I  must  see  you  alone  to-morrow,  before  Grosse  comes. 
Can  you  manage  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  When  ?" 

"  At  the  stairs  on  the  cliff  at  eleven  o'clock." 

On  that  he  left  me.  But  one  question  lias  pursued  me 
ever  since.  Does  Oscar  know  the  writer  of  the  mysterious 
letter?  I  firmly  believe  he  does.  To-morrow  will  prove 
whether  I  am  right  or  wrong.  How  I  long  for  to-morrow 
to  come ! 


CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-FOURTH. 

LUCILLA'S  JOURNAL,  CONTINUED. 

September  4. — I  mark  this  day  as  one  of  the  saddest  days 
of  my  life.  Oscar  has  shown  Madame  Pratolungo  to  me  in 
her  true  colors.  He  has  reasoned  out  this  miserable  matter 
with  a  plainness  which  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  resist.  I 
have  thrown  away  my  love  and  my  confidence  on  a  false 
woman :  there  is  no  sense  of  honor,  no  feeling  of  gratitude 
or  of  delicacy,  in  her  nature.  And  I  once  thought  her — it 
sickens  me  to  recall  it !  I  will  see  her  no  more. 

[Note. — Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  to  be  obliged  to  copy 
out,  with  your  own  hand,  this  sort  of  opinion  of  your  own 
character?  I  can  recommend  the  sensation  produced  as 
something  quite  new,  and  the  temptation  to  add  a  line  or 
two  on  your  own  account  to  be  as  nearly  as  possible  beyond 
mortal  resistance. — P.] 


372  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

Oscar  and  I  met  at  the  stairs  at  eleven  o'clock,  as  we  had 
arranged. 

He  took  me  to  the  west  pier.  At  that  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing (excepting  a  few  sailors  who  paid  no  heed  to  us)  the 
place  was  a  solitude.  It  was  one  of  the  loveliest  d:iys  of  the 
season.  When  we  were  tired  of  pacing  to  and  fro  \\e  could 
sit  down  under  the  mellow  sunshine  and  enjoy  the  balmy 
sea  air.  In  that  pure  light,  with  all  those  lovely  colors 
about  us,  there  was  something,  to  my  mind,  horribly  and 
shamefully  out  of  place  in  the  talk  that  engrossed  us — talk 
that  still  turned,  hour  after  hour,  on  nothing  but  plots  and 
lies,  cruelty,  ingratitude,  and  deceit ! 

I  managed  to  ask  my  first  question  so  as  to  make  him  en- 
ter on  the  subject  at  once,  without  wasting  time  in  phrases 
to  prepare  me  for  what  was  to  come. 

"When  my  aunt  mentioned  that  letter  at  dinner  yester- 
day," I  said,  "I  fancied  that  you  knew  something  about  it. 
Was  I  right  ?" 

"Very  nearly  right,"  he  answered.  "I  can't  say  I  knew 
any  thing  about  it.  I  only  suspected  that  it  was  the  pro- 
duction of  an  enemy  of  yours  and  mine." 

"Not  Madame  Pratolungo?" 

"Yes!  Madame  Pratolungo." 

I  disagreed  with  him  at  the  outset.  Madame  Pratolungo 
and  my  aunt  had  quarreled  about  politics.  Any  correspond- 
ence between  them — a  confidential  correspondence  especially 
— seemed  to  be  one  of  the  most  unlikely  things  that  could 
take  place.  I  asked  Oscar  if  he  could  guess  what  the  letter 
contained,  and  why  it  was  not  to  be  given  to  me  until  Grosse 
reported  that  I  was  quite  cured. 

"I  can't  guess  at  the  contents — I  can  only  guess  at  the 
object  of  the  letter,"  he  said. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  The  object  which  she  has  had  in  view  from  the  first — to 
place  every  possible  obstacle  in  the  way  of  my  marrying  you." 

"  What  interest  can  she  have  in  doing  that  ?" 

"My  brother's  interest." 

"Forgive  me,  Oscar.     I  can  not  believe  it  of  her." 

We  were  walking  while  these  words  were  passing  be- 
tween us.  When  I  said  that,  he  stopped  and  looked  at  me 
very  earnestly 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  373 

"  You  believed  it  of  her  when  you  answered  my  letter," 
he  said. 

I  admitted  that. 

"I  believed  your  letter,"  I  replied;  "and  I  shared  your 
opinion  of  her  as  long  as  she  was  in  the  same  house  with  me. 
Her  presence  fed  my  anger  and  rny  horror  of  her  in  some 
way  that  I  can't  account  for.  Now  she  has  left  me — now  I 
have  time  to  think — there  is  something  in  her  absence  that 
pleads  for  her,  and  tortures  me  with  doubts  if  I  have  done 
right.  I  can't  explain  it  —  I  don't  understand  it.  I  only 
know  that  so  it  is." 

He  still  looked  at  me  more  and  more  attentively.  "  Your 
good  opinion  of  her  must  have  been  very  firmly  rooted,  to 
assert  itself  in  this  obstinate  manner,"  he  said.  "  What  can 
she  have  done  to  deserve  it?" 

If  I  had  looked  back  through  all  my  old  recollections  of 
her,  and  had  recalled  them  one  by  one,  it  would  only  have 
ended  in  making  me  cry.  And  yet  I  felt  that  I  ought  to 
stand  up  for  her  as  long  as  I  could.  I  managed  to  meet  the 
difficulty  in  this  way. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  she  did,"  I  said,  "after  I  received 
your  letter.  Fortunately  for  me,  she  was  not  very  well  that 
morning,  and  she  breakfasted  in  bed.  I  had  plenty  of  time 
to  compose  myself,  and  to  caution  Zillah  (who  read  your  let- 
ter to  me),  before  we  met  for  the  first  time  that  day.  On 
the  previous  day  I  had  felt  hurt  and  offended  with  the  man- 
ner in  which  she  accounted  for  your  absence  from  Brown- 
down.  I  thought  she  was  not  treating  me  with  the  same 
confidence  which  I  should  have  placed  in  her,  if  our  posi- 
tions had  been  reversed.  When  I  next  saw  her,  having  your 
warning  in  my  mind,  I  made  my  excuses,  and  said  what  I 
thought  she  would  expect  me  to  say  under  the  circum- 
stances. In  my  excitement  and  my  wretchedness,  I  dare 
say  I  overacted  my  part.  At  any  rate,  I  roused  the  suspi- 
cion in  her  that  something  was  wrong.  She  not  only  asked 
me  if  any  thing  had  happened — she  went  the  length  of  say- 
ing, in  so  many  words,  that  she  thought  she  saw  a  change  in 
me.  I  stopped  it  there  by  declaring  that  I  did  not  under- 
stand her.  She  must  have  seen  that  I  was  not  telling  the 
truth — she  must  have  known  as  well  as  I  knew  that  I  was 
concealing  something  from  her.  For  all  that,  not  one  word 


374  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

more  escaped  her  lips.  A  proud  delicacy — I  saw  it  as  plain- 
ly in  her  face  as  I  now  see  you — a  proud  delicacy  silenced 
her:  she  looked  wounded  and  hurt.  I  have  been  thinking 
of  that  look  since  I  have  been  here.  I  have  asked  myself 
(what  did  not  occur  to  me  at  the  time)  if  a  false  woman,  who 
knew  herself  to  be  guilty,  would  have  behaved  in  that  way? 
Surely  a  false  woman  would  have  set  her  wits  against  mine, 
and  have  tried  to  lead  me  into  betraying  to  her  what  dis- 
coveries I  had  really  made?  Oscar!  that  delicate  silence, 
that  wounded  look,  will  plead  for  her  when  I  think  of  her  in 
her  absence.  I  can  not  feel  as  satisfied  as  I  once  did  that 
she  is  the  abominable  creature  you  declare  her  to  be.  I 
know  you  are  incapable  of  deceiving  rne — I  know  you  be- 
lieve what  you  say.  But  is  it  not  possible  that  appearances 
have  misled  you?  Can  you  really  be  sure  that  you  have 
not  made  some  dreadful  mistake?" 

Without  answering  me,  he  suddenly  stopped  at  a  seat  un- 
der the  stone  parapet  of  the  pier,  and  signed  to  me  to  sit 
down  by  him.  I  obeyed.  Instead  of  looking  at  me,  he  kept 
his  head  turned  away,  looking  out  over  the  sea.  I  could 
not  make  him  out.  He  perplexed — he  almost  alarmed  me. 

"Have  I  offended  you?"  I  asked. 

He  turned  toward  me  again  as  abruptly  as  he  had  turned 
away.  His  eyes  wandered ;  his  face  was  pale. 

"  You  are  a  good,  generous  creature,"  he  said,  in  a  con- 
fused, hasty  way.  "  Let  us  talk  of  something  else." 

"No  !"  I  answered.  "  I  am  too  deeply  interested  in  know- 
ing the  truth  to  talk  of  any  thing  else." 

His  color  changed  again  at  that.  His  face  flushed ;  he 
gave  a  heavy  sigh  as  one  does  sometimes  when  one  is  mak- 
ing a  great  effort. 

"  You  will  have  it  ?"  he  said. 

"  I  will  have  it." 

He  rose  again.  The  nearer  he  was  to  telling  me  all  that 
he  had  kept  concealed  from  me  thus  far,  the  harder  it  seemed 
to  be  to  him  to  say  the  first  words. 

"Do  you  mind  walking  on  again  ?"  he  asked. 

I  silently  rose  on  my  side,  and  put  my  arm  in  his.  We 
walked  on  slowly  toward  the  end  of  the  pier.  Arrived  there, 
he  stood  still,  and  spoke  those  first  hard  words — looking  out 
over  the  broa<i  bhie  waters:  not  looking  at  me. 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  375 

"I  won't  ask  you  to  take  any  thing  for  granted  on  my  as- 
sertion only,"  he  began.  "The  woman's  own  words,  the 
woman's  own  actions,  shall  prove  her  guilty.  How  I  first 
came  to  suspect  her — how  I  afterward  found  my  suspicions 
confirmed — I  refrain  from  telling  you,  for  this  reason,  that  I 
am  determined  not  to  use  my  influence  to  shape  your  views 
to  mine.  Carry  your  memory  back  to  the  time  I  have  al- 
ready mentioned  in  my  letter — the  time  when  she  betrayed 
herself  to  you  in  the  rectory  garden.  Is  it  true  that  she 
said  you  would  have  fallen  in  love  with  my  brother,  if  you 
had  met  him  first,  instead  of  me?" 

"  It  is  true  that  she  said  it,"  I  answered :  "  at  a  moment," 
I  added,  "  when  her  temper  had  got  the  better  of  her,  and 
when  mine  had  got  the  better  of  me." 

"Advance  the  hour  a  little,"  he  went  on — "to  the  time 
when  she  followed  you  to  Browndown.  Was  she  still  out 
of  temper  when  she  made  her  excuses  to  you?" 

"  No." 

"Did  she  interfere  when  Nugent  took  advantage  of  your 
blindness  to  make  you  believe  you  were  talking  to  me?" 

"  No." 

"  Was  she  out  of  temper  then  ?" 

I  still  defended  her.  "She  might  well  have  been  angry," 
I  said.  "She  had  made  her  excuses  to  me  in  the  kindest 
manner,  and  I  had  received  them  with  the  most  unpardona- 
ble rudeness." 

My  defense  produced  no  effect  0:1  him.  lie  summed  it  up 
coolly  so  far.  "She  compared  me  tlisudvantageously  with 
?ny  brother,  and  she  allowed  my  brother  to  personate  me,  in 
speaking  to  you,  without  interfering  to  stop  it.  In  both 
these  cases  her  temper  excuses  and  accounts  for  her  conduct. 
Very  good.  We  may,  or  may  not,  differ  so  far.  Before  we 
go  farther  let  us,  if  we  can,  agree  on  one  unanswerable  fact. 
Which  of  us  two  brothers  was  her  favorite  from  the  first?" 

About  that  there  could  be  no  doubt.  I  admitted  at  once 
that  Nugent  was  her  favorite.  And  more  than  this,  I  re- 
membered accusing  her  myself  of  never  having  done  justice 
to  Oscar  from  the  first.  (Note. — See  the  sixteenth  chapter, 
and  Madame  Pratolungo's  remark,  warning  you  that  you 
would  hear  of  this  circumstance  again. — P.) 

Oscar  went  on : 


376  POOK   MISS    FINCH. 

"Bear  that  in  mind,"  he  said.  "And  now  let  us  get  to 
the  time  when  we  were  assembled  in  your  sitting-room,  to 
discuss  the  subject  of  the  operation  on  your  eyes.  The  ques- 
tion before  us,  as  I  remember  it,  was  this.  Were  you  to  mar- 
ry me  before  the  operation,  or  were  you  to  keep  me  waiting 
until  the  operation  had  been  performed,  and  the  cure  was 
complete?  How  did  Madame  Pratolungo  decide  on  that  oc- 
casion ?  She  decided  against  my  interests ;  she  encouraged 
you  to  delay  our  marriage." 

I  persisted  in  defending  her.  "  She  did  that  out  of  sym- 
pathy with  me,"  I  said. 

He  surprised  me  by  again  accepting  my  view  of  the  mat- 
ter without  attempting  to  dispute  it. 

"We  will  say  she  did  it  out  of  sympathy  with  you,"  he 
proceeded.  "  Whatever  her  motives  might  be,  the  result 
was  the  same.  My  marriage  to  you  was  indefinitely  put  off, 
and  Madame  Pratolungo  voted  for  that  delay," 

"  And  your  brother,"  I  added,  "  took  the  other  side,  and 
tried  to  persuade  me  to  marry  you  first.  How  can  you  rec- 
oncile that  with  what  you  have  told  me — " 

He  interposed  before  I  could  say  more.  "Don't  bring  my 
brother  into  the  inquiry,"  he  said.  "My  brother  at  that 
time  could  still  behave  like  an  honorable  man,  and  sacrifice 
his  own  feelings  to  his  duty  to  me.  Let  us  strictly  confine 
ourselves,  for  the  present,  to  what  Madame  Pratolungo  said 
and  did.  And  let  us  advance  again  to  a  few  minutes  later 
on  the  same  day,  when  our  little  domestic  debate  had  ended. 
My  brother  was  the  first  to  go.  Then  you  retired,  and  left 
Madame  Pratolungo  and  me  alone  in  the  room.  Do  you  re- 
member ?" 

I  remembered  perfectly. 

"You  had  bitterly  disappointed  me,"  I  said.  "You  had 
shown  no  sympathy  with  my  eagerness  to  be  restored  to  the 
blessing  of  sight.  You  made  objections  and  started  difficul- 
ties. I  recollect  speaking  to  yon  with  some  of  the  bitterness 
that  I  felt — blaming  you  for  not  believing  in  my  future  ag  I 
believed  in  it,  and  hoping  as  I  hoped — and  then  leaving  you 
and  locking  myself  up  in  my  own  room." 

In  those  terms  I  satisfied  him  that  my  memory  of  the  events 
of  that  day  was  as  clear  as  his  own.  He  listened  without 
making  any  remark,  and  went  on  when  I  had  done. 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  377 

"Madame  Pratolungo  shared  your  hard  opinion  of  me  on 
that  occasion,"  lie  proceeded ;  "  and  expressed  it  in  infinitely 
stronger  terms.  She  betrayed  herself  to  you  in  the  rectory 
garden.  She  betrayed  herself  to  me  after  you  had  left  us  to- 
gether in  the  sitting-room.  Her  hasty  temper  again,  beyond 
all  doubt!  I  quite  agree  with  you.  What  she  said  to  me 
in  your  absence  she  would  never  have  said  if  she  had  been 
mistress  of  herself." 

I  began  to  feel  a  little  startled.  "How  is  it  that  you  now 
tell  me  of  this  for  the  first  time?"  I  said.  "Were  you  afraid 
of  distressing  me?" 

"  I  was  afraid  of  losing  you,"  he  answered. 

Hitherto  I  had  kept  my  arm  in  his.  I  drew  it  out  now. 
If  his  reply  meant  any  thing,  it  meant  that  he  had  once 
thought  me  capable  of  breaking  faith  with  him.  He  saw 
that  I  was  hurt. 

"  Remember,"  he  said,  "  that  I  had  unhappily  offended  you 
that  day,  and  that  you  have  not  heard  yet  what  Madame 
Pratolungo  had  the  audacity  to  say  to  me  under  those  cir- 
cumstances." 

"What  did  she  say  to  you?" 

"This:  'It  would  have  been  a  happier  prospect  for  Lu- 
cilla  if  she  had  been  going  to  marry  your  brother,  instead  of 
marrying  you.'  I  repeat  literally :  those  were  the  words." 

I  could  no  more  believe  it  of  her  than  I  could  have  believed 
it  of  myself. 

"  Arc  you  really  sure?"  I  asked  him.  '"''Can  she  have  said 
any  thing  so  cruel  to  you  as  that?" 

Instead  of  answering  me,  he  took  his  pocket-book  from  the 
breast  pocket  of  his  coat,  searched  in  it,  and  produced  a  mor- 
sel of  folded  and  crumpled  paper.  He  opened  the  paper,  and 
showed  me  some  writing  inside. 

"  Is  that  my  writing  ?"  he  asked. 

It  was  his  writing.  I  had  seen  enough  of  his  letters  since 
the  recovery  of  my  sight  to  feel  sure  of  that. 

"Read  it,"  he  said,  "and  judge  for  yourself." 

[Note. — You  have  made  your  acquaintance  with  this  let- 
ter already,  in  my  thirty-second  chapter.  I  had  said  those 
foolish  words  to  Oscar  (as  you  will  find  in  my  record  of  the 
ti:r.t>),  under  the  influence  of  a  natural  indignation,  which  anv 


378  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

other  woman  with  a  spark  of  spirit  in  her  would  have  felt  in 
my  place.  Instead  of  personally  remonstrating  with  me,  Os- 
car had  (as  usual)  gone  home,  and  written  me  a  letter  of  ex- 
postulation. Having,  on  my  side,  had  time  to  cool,  and  feel- 
ing the  absurdity  of  our  exchanging  letters  when  we  were 
within  a  few  minutes'  walk  of  each  other,  I  had  gone  straight 
to  Browndown  on  receiving  the  letter,  first  crumpling  it  up 
and  (as  I  supposed)  throwing  it  into  the  fire.  After  person- 
ally setting  myself  right  with  Oscar,  I  had  returned  to  the 
rectory,  and  had  there  heard  that  Nugent  had  been  to  see 
me  in  my  absence,  had  waited  a  little  while  alone  in  the  sit- 
ting-room, and  had  gone  away  again.  When  I  tell  you  that 
the  letter  which  he  was  now  showing  to  Lucilla  was  that 
same  letter  of  Oscar's,  which  I  had  (as  I  believed)  destroyed, 
you  will  understand  that  I  had  thrown  it  into  the  fender  in- 
stead of  into  the  fire,  and  that  I  failed  to  see  it  in  the  fender 
on  my  return  simply  because  Nugent  had  seen  it  first,  and 
had  taken  it  away  with  him.  These  particulars  are  described 
in  greater  detail  in  the  chapter  to  which  I  have  referred,  the 
letter  itself  being  there  inserted  at  full  length.  However,  I 
will  save  you  the  trouble  of  looking  back — I  know  how  you 
hate  trouble ! — by  transcribing  literally  what  I  find  before 
me  in  the  Journal.  The  original  letter  is  pasted  on  the  page : 
I  will  copy  it  from  the  page  for  the  second  time.  Am  I  not 
good  to  you  ?  What  author  by  profession  would  do  as  much 
for  you  as  this?  I  am  afraid  I  am  praising  myself!  Let  Lu- 
cilla proceed. — P.] 

I  took  the  letter  from  him,  and  read  it.  At  my  request, 
he  has  permitted  me  to  keep  it.  The  letter  is  my  justifica- 
tion for  thinking  of  Madame  Pratolungo  as  I  now  think  of 
her.  I  place  it  here  before  I  write  another  line  in  my  Jour- 
nal. 

"MADAME  PRATOLUNGO, — You  have  distressed  and  pained 
me  more  than  I  can  say.  There  are  faults,  and  serious  ones, 
on  my  side,  I  know.  I  heartily  beg  your  pardon  for  any  thing 
that  I  may  have  said  or  done  to  offend  you.  I  can  not  sub- 
mit to  your  hard  verdict  on  me.  If  you  knew  how  I  adore 
Lucilla,  you  would  make  allowances  for  me — you  would  un- 
derstand me  better  than  you  do.  I  can  not  get  your  last 


POOR  MISS  FINCFI.  379 

cruel  words  out  of  my  cars.  I  can  not  meet  you  again  with- 
out some  explanation  of  them.  You  stabbed  me  to  the  heart 
when  you  said  this  evening  that  it  would  be  a  happier  pros- 
pect for  Lucilla  if  she  had  been  going  to  marry  my  brother 
instead  of  marrying  me.  I  hope  you  did  not  really  mean 
that?  Will  you  please  write  and  tell  me  whether  you  did 
or  not  ?  OSCAR." 

My  first  proceeding  after  reading  those  lines  was,  of  course, 
to  put  my  arm  again  in  his,  and  to  draw  him  as  close  to  me 
as  close  could  be.  My  second  proceeding  followed  in  due 
time.  I  asked,  naturally,  for  Madame  Pratolungo's  answer 
to  that  most  affectionate  and  most  touching  letter. 

"  I  have  no  answer  to  show  you,"  he  said. 

"  You  have  lost  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  never  had  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Madame  Pratolungo  never  answered  my  letter." 

I  made  him  repeat  that — once,  twice.  Was  it  not  incredi- 
ble that  such  an  appeal  could  be  made  to  any  woman  not  ut- 
terly depraved,  and  be  left  unnoticed?  Twice  he  reiterated 
the  same  answer.  Twice  he  declared  on  his  honor  that  not 
a  line  of  reply  had  been  returned  to  him.  She  tea,?,  then, 
utterly  depraved  ?  No !  there  was  a  last  excuse  left  that 
justice  and  friendship  might  still  make  for  her.  I  made  it. 

"There  is  but  one  explanation  of  her  conduct,"  I  said. 
"  She  never  received  the  letter.  Where  did  YOU  send  it 
to?" 

"  To  the  rectory." 

"  Who  took  it  ?" 

"My  own  servant." 

"  He  may  have  lost  it  on  the  way,  and  have  been  afraid  to 
tell  you.  Or  the  servant  at  the  rectory  may  have  forgotten 
to  deliver  it." 

Oscar  shook  his  head.  "  Quite  impossible  !  I  know  Ma- 
dame Pratolungo  received  the  letter." 

"  How  ?" 

"I  found  it  crumpled  up  in  a  corner  inside  the  fender  in 
yow  sitting-room  at  the  rectory" 

"  Had  it  been  opened  ?" 

"  It  had  been  opened.     She  had  received  it ;  she  had  read 


380  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

it ;  and  she  had  not  thrown  quite  far  enough  to  throw  it  into 
the  lire.  Now,  Lucillal  Is  Madame  Pratolungo  an  injured 
woman?  and  am  I  a  man  who  has  slandered  her?" 

There  was  another  public  seat  a  few  paces  distant  from  us. 
I  could  stand  no  longer — I  went  away  by  myself  and  sat 
down.  A  dull  sensation  possessed  me.  I  could  neither  speak 
nor  cry.  There  I  sat  in  silence;  slowly  wringing  my  hands 
in  my  lap,  and  feeling  the  last  ties  that  still  bound  me  to  the 
once-loved  friend  of  former  days  falling  away  one  after  the 
other,  and  leaving  us  parted  for  life. 

He  followed  me,  and  stood  over  me — he  summed  her  up 
in  stern,  quiet  tones,  which  carried  conviction  into  my  mind, 
and  made  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself  for  having  ever  regret- 
ted her. 

"Look  back  for  the  last  time, Lucilla,  at  what  this  woman 
has  said  and  done.  You  will  find  that  the  idea  of  your  mar- 
rying Nugent  is,  under  one  form  or  another,  always  present 
to  her  mind.  Present  alike  when  she  forgets  herself  and 
speaks  in  a  rage,  or  when  she  reflects  and  acts  with  a  pur- 
pose. At  one  time  she  tells  you  that  you  would  have  fallen 
in  love  with  my  brother  if  you  had  seen  him  first.  At  an- 
other time  she  stands  by  while  my  brother  is  personating  me 
to  you,  and  never  interferes  to  stop  it.  On  a  third  occasion 
she  sees  that  you  are  offended  with  me,  and  triumphs  so 
cruelly  in  seeing  it  that  she  tells  me  to  my  face  your  pros- 
pect would  have  been  a  much  happier  one  if  you  had  been 
engaged  to  marry  my  brother  instead  of  me.  She  is  asked 
in  writing,  civilly  and  kindly  asked,  to  explain  what  she 
means  by  those  abominable  words.  She  has  had  time  to  re- 
flect since  she  spoke  them;  and  what  does  she  do?  Does 
she  answer  me?  No!  she  contemptuously  tosses  my  letter 
into  the  fire-place.  Add  to  these  plain  facts  what  you  your- 
self have  observed.  Nugent  has  all  her  admiration ;  Nugent 
is  her  favorite:  from  the  first  she  has  always  disliked  and 
wronged  me.  Add  to  this,  again,  that  Nugent  (as  I  know 
for  certain)  privately  confessed  to  her  that  he  was  himself  in 
love  with  you.  Look  at  all  these  circumstances,  and  what 
plain  conclusion  follows?  I  ask  you  once  more — Is  Madame 
Pratolungo  a  slandered  woman?  or  am  I  right  in  warning 
you  to  beware  of  her?" 

What  could  I  do  but  own  that  he  was  rijjht?    It  was  due 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  381 

to  him  and  due  to  me  to  close  my  heart  to  hi  r  from  that  mo- 
ment. Oscar  sat  down  by  me  and  took  my  hand. 

"  After  my  experience  of  her  in  the  past,"  he  went  on,  soft- 
ly, "can  you  wonder  that  I  dread  what  she  may  do  in  the 
future?  Has  no  such  thing  ever  happened  as  the  parting  of 
true  lovers  by  treachery  which  has  secretly  undermined  their 
confidence  in  each  other?  Is  Madame  Pratolungo  not  clever 
enough  and  unscrupulous  enough  to  undermine  our  confi- 
dence, and  to  turn  against  us,  to  the  wickedest  purpose,  the 
influence  which  she  already  possesses  at  the  rectory?  How 
do  we  know  that  she  is  not  in  communication  with  my  broth- 
er at  this  moment?" 

I  stopped  him  there — I  could  not  endure  it.  "You  have 
seen  your  brother,"  I  said.  "You  have  told  me  that  you 
and  he  understand  each  other.  What  have  you  to  dread 
after  that  ?" 

"I  have  to  dread  Madame  Pratolungo's  influence,  and  my 
brother's  infatuation  for  you,"  he  answered.  "The  promises 
which  he  lias  honestly  made  to  me  are  promises  which  I  can 
not  depend  on  when  my  back  is  turned,  and  when  Madame 
Pratolungo  may  be  with  him  in  my  absence.  Something 
under  the  surface  is  going  on  already  !  I  don't  like  that 
mysterious  letter,  which  is  only  to  be  shown  to  you  on  cer- 
tain conditions.  I  don't  like  your  father's  silence.  He  has 
had  time  to  answer  your  letter.  Has  he  done  it?  He  has 
had  time  to  answer  my  postscript.  Has  he  done  it?" 

Those  were  awkward  questions.  He  had  certainly  left  both 
our  letters  unanswered — thus  far.  Still,  the  next  post  might 
bring  his  reply.  I  persisted  in  taking  this  view,  and  I  s:iid 
so  to  Oscar.  He  persisted  just  as  obstinately  on  his  side. 

"Suppose  we  go  on  to  the  end  of  the  week,"  he  said, "ami 
still  no  letter  from  your  father  comes  for  you  or  for  me? 
Will  you  admit  then  that  his  silence  is  suspicious?" 

"I  will  admit  that  his  silence  shows  a  sad  want  of  proper 
consideration  for  you"  I  replied. 

"And  there  you  will  stop?  You  won't  see  (what  I  see) 
the  influence  of  Madame  Pratolungo  making  itself  felt  at  the 
rectory,  and  poisoning  your  father's  mind  against  our  mar- 
riage ?" 

He  was  pressing  me  rather  hardly.  I  did  my  best,  how- 
ever, to  tell  him  honestly  what  was  passing  in  my  mind. 


382  POOK   MISS    FINCH. 

"  I  can  see,"  I  said,  "  that  Madame  Pratolungo  has  behaved 
most  cruelly  to  you.  And  I  believe,  after  what  you  have 
told  me,  that  she  would  rejoice  if  I  broke  my  engagement, 
and  married  your  brother.  But  I  can  not  understand  that 
she  is  mad  enough  to  be  actually  plotting  to  make  me  do  it. 
Nobody  knows  better  than  she  does  how  faithfully  I  love 
you,  and  how  hopeless  it  would  be  to  attempt  to  make  me 
marry  another  man.  Would  the  stupidest  woman  living, 
who  looked  at  you  two  brothers  (knowing  what  she  knows), 
be  stupid  enough  to  do  what  you  suspect  Madame  Pratolungo 
of  doing  ?" 

I  thought  this  unanswerable.  He  had  his  reply  to  it  ready, 
for  all  that. 

"If  you  had  seen  more  of  the  world,  Lucilla,"  he  said,  "  you 
would  know  that  a  true  love  like  yours  is  a  mystery  to  a 
woman  like  Madame  Pratolungo.  She  doesn't  believe  in  it — 
she  doesn't  understand  it.  She  knows  herself  to  be  capable 
of  breaking  any  engagement,  if  the  circumstances  encouraged 
her,  and  she  estimates  your  fidelity  by  her  knowledge  of  her 
own  nature.  There  is  nothing  in  her  experience  of  you,  or  in 
her  knowledge  of  my  brother's  disfigurement,  to  discourage 
such  a  woman  from  scheming  to  part  us.  She  has  seen  for 
herself — what  you  have  already  told  me — that  you  have  got 
over  your  first  aversion  to  him.  She  knows  that  women  as 
charming  as  you  are  have  over  and  over  again  married  men 
far  more  personally  repulsive  than  my  brother.  Lucilla ! 
something  which  is  not  to  be  outargued,  and  not  to  be  con- 
tradicted, tells  me  that  her  return  to  England  will  be  fatal  to 
my  hopes,  if  that  return  finds  you  and  me  with  no  closer  tie 
between  us  than  the  tie  that  binds  us  now.  Are  these  fanci- 
ful apprehensions  unworthy  of  a  man  ?  My  darling,  worthy 
or  not  worthy,  you  ought  to  make  allowances  for  them. 
They  are  apprehensions  inspired  by  my  love  for  You  !" 

Under  those  circumstances,  I  could  make  every  allowance 
for  him — and  I  said  so.  He  moved  nearer  to  me,  and  put  his 
arm  round  me. 

"  Are  we  not  engaged  to  each  other  to  be  man  and  wife  ?" 
he  whispered. 

"  Yes." 

"Are  we  not  both  of  age,  and  both  free  to  do  as  we  like?" 

"Yes." 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  383 

'•'  Would  you  relieve  me  from  the  anxieties  under  whicb  I 
srn  suffering  if  you  could  ?" 

"You  know  I  would  !"  . 

"You  can  relieve  me." 

"  How  ?" 

"By  giving  me  a  husband's  claim  to  you, Lucilla — by  con- 
senting to  marry  me  in  London  in  a  fortnight's  time." 

I  started  back  and  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  For  the 
moment  I  was  incapable  of  answering  in  any  other  way  than 
that. 

"  I  ask  you  to  do  nothing  unworthy  of  you,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  spoken  to  a  relative  of  mine  living  near  London  —  a 
married  lady — whose  house  is  open  to  you  in  the  interval  be- 
fore our  wedding-day.  In  a  fortnight  from  the  time  when  I 
get  the  License  we  can  be  married.  Write  home  by  all 
means  to  prevent  them  from  feeling  anxious  about  you.  Tell 
them  that  you  are  safe  and  happy,  and  under  responsible  and 
respectable  care — but  say  no  more.  As  long  as  it  is  possible 
for  Madame  Pratolungo  to  make  mischief  between  us,  con- 
ceal the  place  in  which  you  are  living.  The  instant  we  are 
married,  reveal  every  thing.  Let  all  your  friends,  let  all  the 
world,  know  that  we  are  man  and  wife  !" 

His  arm  trembled  round  me;  his  face  flushed  deep;  his 
eyes  devoured  me.  Some  women,  in  my  place,  might  have 
been  offended  ;  others  might  have  been  flattered.  As  for  me 
— I  can  trust  the  secret  to  these  pages — I  was  frightened. 

"Is  it  an  elopement  that  you  are  proposing  to  me?"  I 
asked. 

"An  elopement !"  he  repeated:  "between  two  engaged 
people  who  have  only  themselves  to  think  of!" 

"  I  have  my  father  to  think  of,  and  my  aunt  to  think  of,"  I 
said.  "You  arc  proposing  to  me  to  run  away  from  them, 
and  to  keep  in  hiding  from  them." 

"I  am  asking  you  to  pay  a  fortnight's  visit  at  the  house 
of  a  married  lady,  and  to  keep  the  knowledge  of  that  visit 
from  the  ears  of  the  worst  enemy  you  have  until  you  have 
become  my  wife,"  he  answered.  "  Is  there  any  thing  so  very 
terrible  in  my  request  that  you  should  turn  pale  at  it,  and 
look  at  me  in  that  frightened  way  ?  Have  I  not  courted  you 
with  your  father's  consent?  Am  I  not  your  promised  hus- 
band? Are  we  not  free  to  decide  for  ourselves?  Thero  is 


384  POOK   MISS    FLXCH. 

literally  no  reason — if  it  could  be  done — why  we  should  not 
be  married  to-morro\v.  And  you  still  hesitate?  Lucind! 
Lucilla !  you  force  me  to  own  the  doubt  that  has  made  me 
miserable  ever  since  I  have  been  here.  Are  you  indeed  as 
changed  toward  me  as  you  seem?  Do  you  really  no  longer 
love  me  as  you  once  loved  me  in  the  days  that  are  gone?" 

He  rose  and  walked  away  a  few  paces,  leaning  over  tne 
parapet  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 

I  sat  alone,  not  knowing  what  to  say  or  do.  The  uneasy 
sense  in  me  that  he  had  reason  to  complain  of  my  treating 
him  coldly  was  not  to  be  dismissed  from  my  mind  by  any 
effort  that  I  could  make.  He  had  no  right  to  expect  me  to 
take  the  step  which  he  had  proposed — there  were  objections 
to  it  which  any  woman  would  have  felt  in  my  place.  Still, 
though  I  was  satisfied  of  this,  there  was  an  obstinate  some- 
thing in  me  which  would  take  his  part.  It  could  not  have 
been  my  conscience  surely  which  said  to  me,  "  There  was  a 
time  when  his  entreaties  would  have  prevailed  on  you  ;  there 
was  a  time  when  you  would  not  have  hesitated  as  you  are 
hesitating  now  ?" 

Whatever  the  influence  was,  it  moved  me  to  rise  from  my 
seat,  and  join  him  at  the  parapet. 

"You  can  not  expect  me  to  decide  on  such  a  serious  mat- 
ter as  this  at  once,"  I  said.  "  Will  you  give  me  a  little  time 
to  think?" 

"  You  are  your  own  mistress,"  he  rejoined,  bitterly.  "  Why 
ask  me  to  give  you  time?  You  take  any  time  you  please; 
you  can  do  as  you  like." 

"  Give  me  till  the  end  of  the  week,"  I  went  on.  "  Let  me 
be  sure  that  my  father  persists  in  not  answering  cither  your 
letter  or  mine.  Though  I  am  my  own  mistress,  nothing  bitt 
his  silence  can  justify  me  in  going  away  secretly,  and  being 
married  to  you  by  a  stranger.  Don't  press  me,  Oscar.  It 
isn't  very  long  to  the  end  of  the  week." 

Something  seemed  to  startle  him — something  in  my  voice 
perhaps  which  told  him  that  I  was  really  distressed.  He 
looked  round  at  me  quickly,  and  caught  me  with  the  tears 
in  my  eyes. 

"Don't  cry,  for  God's  sake!"  he  said.  "  It  shall  be  as  you 
wish.  Take  your  time.  We  will  say  no  more  about  it  till 
tiie  end  of  the  week." 


FOOK   MISS    FINCH.  387 

He  kissed  me  in  a  hurried,  startled  way,  and  gave  me  his 
arm  to  walk  back. 

"Grosse  is  coming  to-day,"  he  continued.  "He  mustn't 
see  you  looking  as  you  are  looking  now.  You  must  rest  and 
compose  yourself.  Come  homo." 

I  went  back  with  him,  feeling — oh,  so  sad  and  sore  at  heart! 
My  last  faint  hope  of  a  renewal  of  my  once  pleasant  intimacy 
with  Madame  Pratolungo  was  at  an  end.  She  stood  revealed 
to  me  now  as  a  woman  whom  I  ought  never  to  have  known 
— a  woman 'with  whom  I  could  never  a«niin  exchange  a  friend- 

o  o 

ly  word.  I  had  lost  the  companion  with  whom  I  had  once 
been  so  happy  •  and  I  had  pained  and  disappointed  Oscar. 
My  life  has  never  looked  so  wretched  and  so  worthless  to  me 
as  it  looked  to-day  on  the  pier  at  Ilamsgate. 

He  left  me  at  the  door,  with  a  gentle,  encouraging  pressure 
of  my  hand. 

"1  will  call  again,  later,"  lie  said,  "and  hear  what  Grosse's 
report  of  you  is,  before  lie  goes  back  to  London.  Rest,  Lu- 
cilla — rest  and  compose  yourself." 

A  heavy  footstep  sounded  suddenly  behind  us  as  he  spoke. 
We  both  turned  round.  Time  had  slipped  by  more  rapidly 
than  we  had  thought.  There  stood  Herr  Grossc,  just  arrived 
on  foot  from  the  railway  station. 

His  first  look  at  me  seemed  to  startle  and  disappoint  him. 
His  eyes  stared  into  mine  through  his  spectacles,  with  an 
expression  of  surprise  and  anxiety  which  I  had  never  seen  in 
them  before.  Then  he  turned  his  head,  and  looked  at  Oscar 
with  a  sudden  change — a  change  unpleasantly  suggestive  (to 
my  fancy)  of  auger  or  distrust.  Not  a  word  fell  from  his  lips. 
Oscar  was  left  to  break  the  awkward  silence.  He  spoke  to 
Grosse. 

"I  won't  disturb  you  and  your  patient  now,"  lie  said.  "I 
will  come  back  in  an  hour's  time." 

"No!  you  will  come  in  along  with  me,  if  you  please.  I 
have  something,  my  young  gentlemans,  that  I  may  want  to 
say  to  you."  He  spoke  with  a  frown  on  his  bushy  eye- 
brows, and  pointed  in  a  very  peremptory  manner  to  the 
house  door. 

Oscar  rang  the  bell.  At  the  same  moment  my  aunt,  hear- 
ing us  outside,  appeared  on  the  balcony  above  the  door. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Grosse,"  she  said.     "I  hope  you  find 


388  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

Lucilla  looking  her  best.  Only  yesterday  I  expressed  my 
opinion  that  she  was  quite  well  again." 

Grosse  took  off  his  hat  sulkily  to  my  aunt,  and  looked 
back  again  at  me — looked  so  hard  and  so  long  that  he  began 
to  confuse  me. 

"Your  aunt's  opinions  is  not  my  opinions,"  lie  growled, 
close  at  my  ear.  "  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  you,  miss.  Go  in !" 

The  servant  was  waiting  for  us  at  the  open  door.  I  went 
in  without  making  any  answer.  Grosse  waited  to  see  Oscar 
enter  the  house  before  him.  Oscar's  face  darkened  as  he 
joined  me  in  the  hall.  He  looked  half  angry,  half  confused. 
Grosse  pushed  himself  roughly  between  us,  and  gave  me  his 
arm.  I  went  up  stairs  with  him,  wondering  what  it  all  meant. 


CHAPTER  TPIE  FORTY-FIFTH. 

LUCILLA'S  JOURNAL,  CONCLUDED. 

/September  4  (continued). — Arrived  in  the  drawing-room, 
Grosse  placed  me  in  a  chair  near  the  window.  He  leaned 
forward,  and  looked  at  me  close ;  he  drew  back,  and  looked 
at  me  from  a  distance  ;  he  took  out  his  mngnifying-glass,  and 
had  a  long  stare  through  it  at  my  eyes;  he  felt  my  pulse, 
dropped  my  wrist  as  if  it  disgusted  him,  and,  turning  to  the 
window,  looked  out  in  grim  silence,  without  taking  the  slight- 
est notice  of  any  one  in  the  room. 

My  '  ant  was  the  first  person  who  spoke,  under  these  dis- 
couraging circumstances. 

"Mr.  Grosse!"  she  said,  sharply.  "Have  you  nothing  to 
tell  me  about  your  patient  to-day?  Do  you  find  Lucilla — 

He  turned  suddenly  round  from  the  window,  and  inter- 
rupted Miss  Batchford  without  the  slightest  ceremony. 

"I  find  her  gone  back,  back,  back!"  he  growled,  getting 
louder  and  louder  at  each  repetition  of  the  word.  "When  I 
sent  her  here,  I  said — 'Keep  her  comfortable-easy.'  You 
have  not  kept  her-  comfortable-easy.  Something  has  turned 
her  poor  little  mind  topsy-turvies.  What  is  it  ?  Who  is  it  ?" 
He  looked  fiercely  backward  and  forward  between  Oscar  and 
my  aunt — then  turned  my  way,  and  putting  his  heavy  hands 
on  my  shoulders,  looked  down  at  me  with  an  odd  angry  kind 
of  pity  in  his  "face.  "My  childs  is  melancholic;  my  childs  is 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  389 

ill,"  lie  went  on.  "Where  is  our  goot-dear  Pratolungo? 
What  did  you  tell  me  about  her,  my  little-lofe,  when  I  last 
saw  you?  You  said  she  had  gone  aways  to  see  her  Papa. 
Send  a  telegrams  and  say  I  want  Pratolungo  here." 

At  the  repetition  of  Madame  Pratolungo's  name  Miss  Hatch- 
ford  rose  to  her  feet,  and  stood  (apparently)  several  inches 
higher  than  usual. 

"Am  I  to  understand,  Sir,"  inquired  the  old  lady,  "that 
your  extraordinary  language  is  intended  to  cast  a  reproach 
on  my  conduct  toward  my  niece?" 

"You  are  to  understand  this,  madam.  In  the  face  of  the 
goot  sea  airs,  miss  your  niece  is  fretting  herself  ill.  I  sent 
her  to  this  place  for  to  get  a  rosy  face,  for  to  put  on  a  firm 
flesh.  How  do  I  find  her?  She  has  got  nothing,  she  has  put 
on  nothing — she  is  emphatically  flabby-pale.  In  this  fine 
airs,  she  can  be  flabby-pale  but  for  one  reason.  She  is  fret- 
ting herself  about  something  or  anodder.  Is  fretting  herself 
goot  for  her  eyes?  Ho-damn-damn  !  it  is  as  bad  for  her  eyes 
as  bad  can  be.  If  you  can  do  no  better  than  this,  take  her 
aways  back  again.  You  are  wasting  your  moneys  in  this 
lodgment  here." 

My  aunt  addressed  herself  to  me  in  her  grandest  manner. 

"You  will  understand,  Lucilla,  that  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  notice  such  language  as  this  in  any  other  way  than  by 
leaving  the  room.  If  you  can  bring  Mr.  Grosse  to  his  senses, 
inform  him  that  I  will  receive  his  apologies  and  explanations 
in  writing."  Pronouncing  these  lofty  words  with  her  sever- 
est emphasis,  Miss  Batchford  rose  another  inch,  and  sailed 
majestically  out  of  the  room. 

Grosse  took  no  notice  of  the  offended  lady  :  he  only  put  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  looked  out  of  window  once  more. 
As  the  door  closed,  Oscar  left  the  corner  in  which  he  had 
seated  himself,  not  overgraciously,  when  we  entered  the  room. 

"  Am  I  wanted  here  ?"  he  asked. 

Grosse  was  on  the  point  of  answering  the  question  even 
less  amiably  than  it  had  been  put — when  I  stopped  him  by  a 
look.  "I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  I  whispered  in  his  ear.  He 
nodded,  and,  turning  sharply  to  Oscar,  put  this  question  to 
him : 

"Are  you  living  in  the  house?" 

"I  am  staying  at  the  hotel  at  the  corner." 


390  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

"Go  to  the  hotel,  and  wait  there  till  I  come  to  you." 

Greatly  to  ray  surprise,  Oscar  submitted  to  be  treated  in 
this  peremptory  manner.  He  took  his  leave  of  me  silent- 
ly, and  left  the  room.  Grosse  drew  a  chair  close  to  mine, 
and  sat  down  by  me  in  a  comforting,  confidential,  fatherly 
way. 

"Now,  my  goot-girls,"  he  said.  "What  have  you  been 
fretting  yourself  about  since  I  was  last  in  this  house?  Open 
it  all,  if  you  please,  to  Papa  Grosse.  Come-begin-begin  !" 

I  suppose  he  had  exhausted  his  ill-temper  on  my  aunt  and 
Oscar.  He  said  those  words  more  than  kindly — almost  ten- 
derly. His  fierce  eyes  seemed  to  soften  behind  his  specta- 
cles :  lie  took  my  hand  and  patted  it  to  encourage  me. 

There  are  some  things  written  in  these  pages  of  mine  which 
it  was,  of  course,  impossible  for  me  to  confide  to  him.  With 
those  necessary  reservations — and  without  entering  on  the 
painful  subject  of  my  altered  relations  with  Madame  Prato- 
lungo — I  owned  quite  frankly  how  sadly  changed  I  felt  my- 
self to  be  toward  Oscar,  and  how  much  less  happy  I  was  with 
him,  in  consequence  of  the  change.  "I  am  not  ill  as  you  sup- 
pose," I  explained.  "I  am  only  disappointed  in  myself,  and 
a  little  downhearted  when  I  think  of  the  future."  Having 
opened  it  to  him  in  this  way,  I  thought  it  time  to  put  the 
question  which  I  had  determined  to  ask  when  I  next  saw 
him. 

"The  restoration  of  my  sight,"  I  said,  "has  made  a  new 
being  of  me.  In  gaining  the  sense  of  seeing,  have  I  lost  the 
sense  of  feeling  which  1  had  when  I  was  blind?  I  want  to 

O 

know  if  it  will  come  back  when  I  have  got  used  to  the  nov- 
elty of  my  position?  I  want  to  know  if  I  shall  ever  enjoy 
Oscar's  society  again,  as  I  used  to  enjoy  it  in  the  old  days 
before  you  cured  me — the  happy  days,  Papa  Grosae,  when  I 
was  an  object  of  pity,  and  when  all  the  people  spoke  of  rne 
as  Poor  Miss  Finch  ?" 

I  had  more  to  say — but  at  this  place,  Grosse  (without  mean- 
ing it,  I  am  sure)  suddenly  stopped  me.  To  my  amazement, 
he  let  go  of  my  hand,  and  turned  his  face  away  sharply, 
as  if  he  resented  my  looking  at  him.  His  big  head  sank 
on  his  breast.  He  lifted  his  great  hairy  hands,  shook  them 
mournfully,  and  let  them  fall  on  his  knees.  This  strange  be- 
havior, and  the  still  stranger  silence  which  accompanied  it, 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  391 

made  me  so  uneasy  that  I  insisted  on  his  explaining  himself. 
"What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  I  said.  "Why  don't  you 
answer  me  ?" 

He  roused  himself  with  a  start,  and  put  his  arm  round  me 
with  a  wonderful  gentleness  for  a  man  who  was  so  rough  at 
other  times. 

"  It  is  nothing,  my  pretly  lofe,"  he  said.  "  I  am  out  of  sort, 
as  you  call  it.  Your  English  climate  sometimes  gives  your 
English  blue-devil  to  foreign  mens  like  me.  I  have  got  him 
now — an  English  blue-devil  in  a  German  inside.  Soh !  I 
shall  go  and  walk  him  out,  and  come  back  empty-cheerful, 
and  see  you  again."  He  rose,  after  this  curious  explanation, 
and  attempted  some  sort  of  answer — a  very  odd  one — to  tho 
question  which  I  had  asked  of  him.  "As  to  that  odder  thing," 
he  went  on,  "  yes-indeed-yes.  You  have  hit  your  nail  on  his 
head.  It  is,  as  you  say,  your  seeings  which  has  got  in  the 
way  of  your  feelings.  When  your  seeings-feelings  has  got 
used  to  one  anodder,  your  seeings  will  stay  where  he  is,  your 
feelings  will  come  back  to  where  they  was;  one  will  balance 
the  odder;  you  will  feel  as  you  did;  you  will  see  as  you 
didn't,  all  at  the  same  times,  all  jolly-nice  again  as  before. 
You  have  my  opinions.  Now  let  me  walk  out  my  blue-devil. 
I  swear  to  come  back  again  with  a  new  inside.  By-by-my- 
Feench-good-by." 

Saying  all  this  in  a  violent  hurry,  as  if  he  was  eager  to  get 
away,  he  gave  me  a  kiss  on  the  forehead,  snatched  up  his 
shabby  hat,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

What  did  it  mean? 

Does  he  persist  in  thinking  me  seriously  ill  ?  I  am  too 
weary  to  puzzle  my  brains  in  the  effort  to  understand  my 
dear  old  surgeon.  It  is  one  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  and  I 
have  still  to  write  the  story  of  all  that  happened  later  in  the 
day.  My  eyes  arc  beginning  to  ache ;  and,  strange  to  say,  I 
have  hardly  been  able  to  see  the  last  two  or  three  lines  I 
have  written.  They  look  as  if  the  ink  was  fading  from  them. 
If  Grosse  knew  what  I  am  about  at  this  moment!  His  last 
words  to  me,  when  he  went  back  to  his  patients  in  London, 
were: — "No  more  readings!  no  more  writings  till  I  come 
again !"  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  in  that  way.  I  have  got 
so  used  to  my  Journal  that  I  can't  do  without  it.  Neverthe- 
less I  must  stop  now — for  the  best  of  reasons.  Though  I 


392  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

have  got  three  lighted  candles  on  my  table,  I  really  can  not 
see  to  write  any  more. 
To  bed  !  to  bed  ! 

[Note. — I  have  purposely  abstained  from  interrupting  Lu- 
cilla's  Journal  until  my  extracts  from  it  reached  this  place. 
Here  the  writer  pauses  and  gives  me  a  chance,  and  here  there 
are  matters  that  must  be  mentioned  of  which  she  had  person- 
ally no  knowledge  at  the  time. 

You  have  seen  how  her  faithful  instinct  still  tries  to  re- 
veal to  my  poor  darling  the  cruel  deception  that  is  being 
practiced  on  her,  and  still  tries  in  vain.  In  spite  of  herself 
she  shrinks  from  the  man  who  is  tempting  her  to  go  away 
with  him,  though  he  pleads  in  the  character  of  her  betrothed 
husband.  In  spite  of  herself  she  detects  the  weak  places  in 
the  case  which  Nugent  has  made  out  against  me  —  the  ab- 
sence of  sufficient  motive  for  the  conduct  of  which  he  accuses 
me,  and  the  utter  improbability  of  my  plotting  and  intriguing 
(without  any  thing  to  gain  by  it)  to  make  her  marry  the  man 
who  was  not  the  man  of  her  choice.  She  feels  these  hesita- 
tions and  difficulties.  But  what  they  really  signify  it  is  mor- 
ally impossible  for  her  to  guess. 

Thus  far,  no  doubt,  her  strange  and  touching  position  has 
been  plainly  revealed  to  you.  But  can  I  feel  quite  so  sure 
that  you  understand  how  seriously  she  has  been  affected  by 
the  anxiety,  disappointment,  and  suspense  which  have  com- 
bined together  to  torture  her  at  this  critical  interval  in  her 
life. 

I  doubt  it,  for  the  sufficient  reason  that  you  have  only  had 
her  Journal  to  enlighten  you,  and  that  her  Journal  shows  she 
does  not  understand  it  herself.  As  things  are,  it  seems  to  be 
time  for  me  to  step  on  the  stage,  and  to  discover  to  you 
plainly  what  her  surgeon  really  thought  of  her  by  telling 
you  what  passed  between  Grosse  and  Nugent  when  the  Ger- 
man presented  himself  at  the  hotel. 

I  am  writing  now  (as  a  matter  of  course)  from  information 
given  to  me,  at  an  after-period,  by  the  persons  themselves. 
As  to  particulars,  the  accounts  vary.  As  to  results,  they 
both  agree. 

The  discovery  that  Nugent  was  at  Ramsgate  necessarily 
took  Grosse  by  surprise.  With  his  previous  knowledge, 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  393 

however,  of  the  situation  of  affairs  at  Dimchurch,  he  could  be 
at  no  loss  to  understand  in  what  character  Nugent  had  pre- 
sented himself  to  Lucilla ;  and  he  could  certainly  not  fail  to 
understand — after  what  he  had  seen  and  what  she  had  her- 
self told  him — that  the  deception  was,  under  present  circum- 
stances, producing  the  worst  possible  effect  on  her  mind. 
Arriving  at  this  conclusion,  he  was  not  a  man  to  hesitate 
about  the  duty  that  lay  before  him.  When  he  entered  the 
room  at  the  hotel  in  which  Nugent  was  waiting  for  him,  he 
announced  the  object  of  his  visit  in  these  four  plain  words, 
as  follows : 

"  Pack  up  and  go  !" 

Nugent  coolly  offered  him  a  chair,  and  asked  what  he 
meant. 

Grosse  refused  the  chair,  but  consented  to  explain  himself 
in  terms  variously  reported  by  the  two  parties.  Combining 
the  statements,  and  translating  Grosse  (in  this  grave  matter) 
into  plain  English,  I  find  that  the  German  must  have  ex- 
pressed himself  in  these  or  nearly  in  these  words: 

"As  a  professional  man,  Mr.  Nugent,  I  invariably  refuse  to 
enter  into  domestic  considerations  connected  with  my  pa- 
tients with  which  I  have  nothing  to  do.  In  the  case  of  Miss 
Finch,  my  business  is  not  with  your  family  complications. 
My  business  is  to  secure  the  recovery  of  the  young  lady's 
sight.  If  I  find  her  health  improving,  I  don't  inquire  how  or 
why.  No  matter  what  private  and  personal  frauds  you  may 
be  practicing  upon  her,  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  them — 
more,  I  am  ready  to  take  advantage  of  them  myself — so  long 
as  their  influence  is  directly  beneficial  in  keeping  her  moral- 
ly and  physically  in  the  condition  in  which  I  wish  her  to  be. 
But  the  instant  I  discover  that  this  domestic  conspiracy  of 
yours — this  personation  of  your  brother,  which  once  quieted 
and  comforted  her — is  unfavorably  affecting  her  health  of 
body  and  peace  of  mind,  I  interfere  between  you  in  the 
character  of  her  medical  attendant,  and  stop  it  on  medical 
grounds.  You  are  producing  in  my  patient  a  conflict  of  feel- 
ing which,  in  a  nervous  temperament  like  hers,  can  not  go  on 
without  serious  injury  to  her  health.  And  serious  injury  to 
her  health  means  serious  injury  to  her  eyes.  I  won't  have 
that — I  tell  you  plainly  to  pack  up  and  go  I  meddle  witli 
nothing  else.  After  what  you  have  yourself  seen,  I  leave 

"it  2 


394  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

you  to  decide  whether  you  will  restore  your  brother  to  Miss 
Finch  or  not.  All  I  say  is,  Go.  Make  any  excuse  you  like, 
but  go  before  you  have  done  more  mischief.  You  shake  your 
head  !  Is  that  a  sign  that  you  refuse  ?  Take  a  day  to  think 
before  you  make  up  your  mind.  I  have  patients  in  London 
to  whom  I  am  obliged  to  go  back.  But  the  day  after  to- 
morrow I  shall  return  to  Ramsgate.  If  I  find  you  still  here, 
I  shall  tell  Miss  Finch  you  are  no  more  Oscar  Dubourg  than 
I  am.  In  her  present  state,  I  see  less  danger  in  giving  her 
even  that  serious  shock  than  in  leaving  her  to  the  slow  tor- 
ment of  mind  which  you  are  inflicting  by  your  continued 
presence  in  this  place.  My  last  word  is  said.  I  go  back  by 
the  next  train  in  an  hour's  time.  Good  morning,  Mr.  Nu- 
gent. If  you  are  a  wise  man,  you  will  meet  me  at  the  sta- 
tion." 

After  this  the  accounts  vary.  Nugent's  statement  asserts 
that  he  accompanied  Grosse  on  his  way  back  to  Miss  Batch- 
ford's  lodging,  arguing  the  matter  with  him,  and  only  leav- 
ing him  at  the  door  of  the  house.  Grosse's  statement,  on  the 
other  hand,  makes  no  allusion  to  this.  The  disagreement  be- 
tween them  is,  however,  of  no  consequence  here.  It  is  ad- 
mitted, on  either  side,  that  the  result  of  the  interview  was 
the  same.  When  Grosse  took  the  train  for  London,  Nugent 
Dubourg  was  not  at  the  station.  The  next  entry  in  the  Jour- 
nal shows  that  he  remained  that  day  and  night,  at  least,  at 
Ramsgate. 

You  now  know,  from  the  narrative  of  the  surgeon's  own 
proceedings,  how  seriously  he  thought  of  his  patient's  case, 
and  how  firmly  he  did  his  duty  as  an  honorable  man.  Having 
given  you  this  necessary  information,  I  again  retire,  and 
leave  Lucilla  to  take  up  the  next  link  in  the  chain  of  events. 

-P.] 

September  5.  Six  o'clock  in  the  morning. — A  few  hours  of 
restless,  broken  sleep,  disturbed  by  horrid  dreams,  and  wak- 
ing over  and  over  again  with  starlings  that  seemed  to  shrfke 
me  from  head  to  foot.  I  can  bear  it  no  longer.  The  sun  is 
rising.  I  have  got  up — and  here  I  am  at  the  writing-table, 
trying  to  finish  the  long  story  of  yesterday,  still  uncompleted 
in  my  Journal. 

I  have  just  been  looking  at  tho  view  f.-om  my  window,  and 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  395 

I  notice  one  thing  which  has  struck  me.    The  mist  this  morn- 
ing  is  the  thickest  mist  I  have  yet  seen  here. 

The  sea  view  is  almost  invisible,  it  is  so  dim  and  dull. 
Even  the  objects  about  me  in  my  room  are  nothing  like  so 
plain  as  usual.  The  mist  is  stealing  in,  no  doubt,  through 
my  open  window.  It  gets  between  me  and  my  paper,  and 
obliges  me  to  bend  down  close  over  the  page  to  see  what  I 
am  about.  When  the  sun  is  higher,  things  will  be  clear 

o  *  o 

a^ain.     In  the  mean  time  I  must  do  as  well  as  I  can. 

0 

Grosse  came  back  after  his  walk  as  mysterious  as  ever. 

He  was  quite  peremptory  in  ordering  me  not  to  overtask 
my  eyes — forbidding  reading  and  writing,  as  I  have  already 
mentioned.  But  when  I  asked  for  his  reasons,  he  had,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  experience  of  him,  no  reasons  to  give.  I 
have  the  less  scruple  about  disobeying  him  on  that  account. 
Still  I  am  a  little  uneasy,  I  confess,  when  I  think  of  his 
strange  behavior  yesterday.  He  looked  at  me,  in  the  oddest 
way,  as  if  he  saw  something  in  my  face  which  he  had  never 
seen  before.  Twice  he  took  his  leave,  and  twice  he  return- 
ed, doubtful  whether  he  would  not  remain  at  Ramsgate,  and 
let  his  patients  in  London  take  care  of  themselves.  His  ex- 
traordinary indecision  was  put  an  end  to  at  last  by  the  arriv- 
al of  a  telegram  which  had  followed  him  from  London  —  an 
urgent  message,  I  suppose,  from  one  of  the  patients.  He 
went  away  in  a  bad  temper  and  a  violent  hurry,  and  told 
me,  at  the  door,  to  expect  him  back  on  the  sixth. 

When  Oscar  came,  later,  there  was  another  surprise  for  me. 

Like  Grosse,  he  was  not  himself — he  too  behaved  strangely! 
First,  he  was  so  cold  and  so  silent  that  I  thought  he  was  of- 
fended. Then  he  went  straight  to  the  other  extreme,  and 
became  so  loudly  talkative,  so  obstreperously  cheerful,  that 
my  aunt  asked  me  privately  whether  I  did  not  suspect  (as 
she  did)  that  he  had  been  taking  too  much  wine.  It  ended 
in  his  trying  to  sing  to  my  accompaniment  on  the  piano, 
and  in  his  breaking  down.  He  walked  away  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room  without  explanation  or  apology.  When  I  fol- 
lowed him  there,  a  little  while  after,  he  had  a  look  that  in- 
describably distressed  me — a  look  as  if  he  had  been  crying. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  evening  my  aunt  fell  asleep  over  her 
book,  and  gave  us  a  chance  of  speaking  to  each  other  in  a 
little  second  room  which  opens  out  of  the  drawing-room  in 


396  POOR   MISS   FIXCII. 

this  house.  It  was  I  who  took  the  chance — not  he.  He  was 
so  incomprehensibly  unwilling  to  go  into  the  room  and  speak 
to  me  that  I  had  to  do  a  very  unladylike  thing :  I  mean  that 
I  had  to  take  his  arm  and  lead  him  in  myself,  and  entreat 
him  (in  a  whisper)  to  tell  me  what  was  the  matter  with  him. 

"  Only  the  old  complaint,"  he  answered. 

I  made  him  sit  down  by  me  on  a  little  old-fashioned  couch 
that  just  held  two. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  old  complaint  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh !  you  know  !" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  would  know  if  you  really  loved  me." 

"  Oscar !  it  is  a  shame  to  say  that.  "  It  is  a  shame  to  doubt 
that  I  love  you  !" 

"  Is  it  ?  Ever  since  I  have  been  here  I  have  doubted  that 
you  love  me.  It  is  getting  to  be  an  old  complaint  of  mine 
now.  I  still  suffer  a  little  sometimes.  Don't  notice  it !" 

He  was  so  cruel  and  so  unjust  that  I  got  up  to  leave  him 
without  saying  a  word  more.  But,  oh  !  he  looked  so  forlorn 
and  so  submissive  —  sitting  with  his  head  down,  and  his 
hands  crossed  listlessly  over  his  knees — that  I  could  not  find 
it  in  my  heart  to  treat  him  harshly.  Was  I  wrong  ?  I  don't 
know  !  I  have  no  idea  how  to  manage  men — and  no  Madame 
Pratolungo  now  to  teach  me.  Right  or  wrong,  it  ended  in  my 
.sitting  down  by  him  again  in  the  place  which  I  had  just  left. 

"You  ought  to  beg  my  pardon,"  I  said,  "for  thinking  of 
me  as  you  think,  and  talking  to  me  as  you  talk." 

"I  do  beg  your  pardon,"  he  answered,  humbly.  "I  am 
sorry  if  I  have  offended  you." 

How  could  I  resist  that  ?  I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
and  tried  to  make  him  lift  up  his  head  and  look  at  me. 

"You  will  always  believe  in  me  in  the  future?"  I  went 
on.  "  Promise  me  that." 

"  I  can  promise  to  try,  Lucilla.  As  things  are  now,  I  can 
promise  no  more." 

"  As  things  are  now  ?  You  are  speaking  in  riddles  to- 
night. Explain  yourself." 

"  I  explained  myself  this  morning  on  the  pier." 

Surely  this  was  hard  on  me — after  he  had  promised  to 
give  me  till  the  end  of  the  week  to  consider  his  proposal ! 
I  took  mv  hand  off  his  shoulder.  He,  who  never  used  to  dis- 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  .197 

please  or  disappoint  me  when  I  was  blind,  had  displeased 
and  disappointed  me  for  the  second  time  in  a  few  minutes  ! 

"  Do  you  wish  to  force  me  ?"  I  asked.  "  After  telling 
me  this  morning  that  you  would  give  me  time  to  reflect?" 

lie  rose,  on  his  side,  languidly  and  mechanically,  like  a 
man  who  neither  knew  nor  cared  what  he  was  doing. 

."  Force  you  ?"  he  repeated.  ''  Did  I  say  that  ?  I  don't 
know  what  I  am  talking  about ;  I  don't  know  what  I  am  tim- 
ing. You  are  right  and  I  am  wronjr.  I  am  a  miserable 

o  o  o 

wretch,  Lucilla — I  am  utterly  unworthy  of  you.  It  would  be 
better  for  you  if  you  never  saw  me  again  !"  He  paused,  and, 
taking  me  by  both  hands,  looked  earnestly  and  sadly  into  my 
face.  "  Good-night,  my  dear  !"  he  said,  and  suddenly  drop- 
ped my  hands,  and  turned  away  to  go  out. 

I  stopped  him.  "  Going  already  ?"  I  said.  "  It  is  not 
Kite  yet," 

"  It  is  best  for  me  to  go." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  I  am  in  wretched  spirits.  It  is  better  for  me  to  be  by 
myself." 

"  Don't  say  that !     It  sounds  like  a  reproach  to  me." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  all  my  fault.     Good-night !" 

I  refused  to  say  good-night ;  I  refused  to  let  him  go.  His 
wanting  to  go  was  in  itself  a  reproach  to  me.  He  had  nev- 
er done  it  before.  I  asked  him  to  sit  down  again. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  For  ten  minutes  !" 

He  shook  his  head  again. 

"  For  five  minutes  !" 

Instead  of  answering,  he  gently  lifted  a  long  lock  of  my 
hair  which  hung  at  the  side  of  my  neck.  .  (My  head,  I  should 
add,  had  been  dressed  that  evening  on  the  old-fashioned  plan 
by  my  aunt's  maid — to  please  my  aunt.) 

"  If  I  stay  five  minutes  longer,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  ask  for 
something." 

"  For  what  ?" 

"  You  have  beautiful  hair,  Lucilla." 

"  You  can't  want  a  lock  of  my  hair,  surely  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"I  gave  you  a  keepsake  of  that  sort — ages  ago.  Have 
you  forgotten  it  ?" 


398  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

[Note. — The  keepsake  had  of  course  been  given  to  the  true 
Oscar,  and  was  then,  as  it  is  now,  still  in  his  possession.  No- 
tice, when  he  recovers  himself,  how  quickly  the  false  Oscar 
infers  this,  and  how  cleverly  he  founds  his  excuse  upon  it. 

-P.] 

His  face  flushed  deep,  his  eyes  dropped  before  mine.  I 
could  see  that  he  was  ashamed  of  himself ;  I  could  only  con- 
clude that  he  had  forgotten  it !  A  morsel  of  his  hair  was,  at 
that  moment,  in  a  locket  which  I  wore  round  my  neck.  I 
had  more  reason,  I  think,  to  doubt  him  than  he  had  to  doubt 
me.  I  was  so  mortified  that  I  stepped  aside,  and  made  way 
for  him  to  go  out. 

"  You  wish  to  go  away,"  I  said  ;  "  I  won't  keep  you  any 
longer." 

It  was  his  turn  now  to  plead  with  me. 

"  Suppose  I  have  been  deprived  of  your  keepsake  ?"  lie 
said.  "  Suppose  somebody  whom  I  would  rather  not  men- 
tion has  taken  it  away  from  me  ?" 

I  instantly  understood  him.  His  miserable  brother  had 
taken  it.  My  work-basket  was  close  by.  I  cut  off  a  lock  of 
my  hair,  and  tied  it  at  each  end  with  a  morsel  of  my  favorite 
light  blue  ribbon. 

"  Are  we  friends  again,  Oscar  ?"  was  all  I  said  as  I  put  it 
into  his  hand. 

He  caught  me  in  his  arms  in  a  kind  of  frenzy — holding  me 
to  him  so  violently  that  lie  hurt  me  ;  kissing  me  so  fierce- 
ly that  he  frightened  me.  Before  I  had  recovered  breath 
enough  to  speak  to  him  he  had  released  me,  and  had  gone 
out  in  such  headlong  haste  that  he  knocked  down  a  little 
round  table  with  books  on  it,  and  awoke  my  aunt. 

The  old  lady  called  for  me  in  her  most  formidable  voice, 
and  showed  me  the  family  temper  in  its  sourest  aspect. 
Grosse  had  gone  back  to  London  without  making  any  apolo- 
gy to  her,  and  Oscar  had  knocked  down  her  books.  The  in- 
dignation aroused  by  these  two  outrages  called  loudly  for  a 
victim — and  (no  else  being  near  at  the  moment)  selected  Me. 
Miss  Batchford  discovered  for  the  first  time  that  she  had  un- 
dertaken too  much  in  undertaking  to  take  the  sole  oharp'  of 
her  niece  at  Ramsgate. 

"I  decline  to  assume  the  entire  responsibility,"  said  my 


POOR  MISS   FINCH.  399 

aunt.  "  At  my  age,  the  entire  responsibility  is  too  much  for 
me.  I  shall  write  to  your  father,  Lucillu.  I  always  did,  and 
always  shall,  detest  him,  as  you  know.  His  views  on  politics 
and  religion  are  (in  a  clergyman)  simply  detestable.  JStill  he 
is  your  lather;  and  it  is  a  duty  on  my  part,  after  what  that 
rude  foreigner  has  said  about  your  health,  to  offer  to  restore 
you  to  your  father's  roof- — or,  at  least,  to  obtain  your  father's 
sanction  to  your  continuing  to  remain  under  my  care.  This 
course,  in  either  case,  you  will  observe,  relieves  me  from  the 
entire  responsibility."  I  am  doing  nothing  to  compromise 
my  position.  My  position  is  quite  plain  to  me.  I  should  have 
formally  accepted  your  father's  hospitality  on  the  occasion 
of  your  wedding,  if  I  had  been  well  enough,  and  if  the  wed- 
ding had  taken  place.  It  follows  as  a  matter  of  course  that 
I  may  formally  report  to  your  father  what  the  medical  opin- 
ion is  of  your  health.  However  brutally  it  may  have  been 
given,  it  is  a  medical  opinion — and  as  such  I  am  bound  to 
communicate  it." 

Knowing  but  too  well  how  bitterly  my  aunt's  aversion  to 
him  is  reciprocated  by  my  father,  I  did  my  best  to  combat 
Miss  Batchford's  resolution,  without  making  matters  worse 
by  telling  her  what  my  motives  really  were.  With  some 
difficulty  I  prevailed  on  her  to  defer  the  proposed  report 
of  me  for  a  day  or  two — and  we  parted  for  the  night  (the 
old  lady's  fits  of  temper  are  soon  over)  as  good  friends  38 
usual. 

This  little  episode  in  the  history  of  the  evening  diverted 
my  mind  for  the  time  from  Oscar's  strange  conduct  yester- 
day evening.  But  once  up  here  by  myself  in  my  own  room, 
I  have  been  thinking  of  it,  or  dreaming  of  it  (such  horrid 
dreams  ! — I  can  not  write  them  down  !),  almost  incessantly 
from  that  time  to  this.  When  we  meet  again  to-day,  how 
will  lie  look  ?  what  will  he  say  ? 

He  was  right  yesterday.  I  am  cold  to  him  ;  there  is 
some  change  in  me  toward  him  which  I  don't  understand. my- 
self. My  conscience  accuses  me  now  T  am  alone — and  Vet, 
God  knows,  it  is  not  my  fault.  Poor  Oscar  !  Poor  Me  ! 

I  have  never  longed  to  see  him,  since  we  met  at  this  place, 
as  I  long  now.  He  sometimes  comes  to  breakfast.  Will  he 
come  to  breakfast  to-day  ? 

Oh,  how  my  eyes  ache  !  and   how   obstinately  the  mist 


400  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

stops  in  the  room  !  Suppose  I  close  the  window,  and  gc 
back  to  bed  again  for  a  little  while? 

Nine  o'clock. — The  maid  came  in  half  an  hour  since  and 
awoke  me.  She  went  to  open  the  window  as  usual.  I  stop- 
ped her. 

"  Is  the  mist  gone  ?"  I  asked. 

The  girl  started.     "  What  mist,  miss  ?" 

"  Haven't  you  seen  it  ?" 

"  No.  miss." 

"  What  time  did  you  get  up  ?" 

"  At  seven,  miss." 

At  seven  I  was  still  writing  in  my  Journal,  and  the  mist 
was  still  over  every  thing  in  the  room.  Persons  in  the  low- 
er ranks  of  life  are  curiously  unobservant  of  the  aspects  of 
Nature.  I  never  (in  the  days  of  my  blindness)  got  any  in- 
formation from  servants  or  laborers  about  the  views  round 
Dimchurch.  They  seemed  to  have  no  eyes  for  any  thing 
beyond  the  range  of  the  kitchen  or  the  plowed  field.  I 
got  out  of  bed,  and  took  the  maid  myself  to  the  window,  and 
opened  it. 

"  There  !"  I  said.  "  It  is  not  quite  so  thick  as  it  was  some 
hours  since.  But  there  is  the  mist  as  plain  as  can  be !" 

The  girl  looked  backward  and  forward  in  a  state  of  be- 
wilderment between  me  and  the  view. 

"Mist?"  she  repeated.  "  Begging  your  pardon,  miss,  it's 
a  beautiful  clear  morning — as  I  see  it." 

"  Clear  ?"  I  repeated,  on  my  side. 

"  Yes,  miss." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  it's  clear  over  the  sea  ?" 

"  The  sea  is  a  beautiful  blue,  miss.  Far  and  near  you  can 
see  the  ships." 

"  Where  are  the  ships  ?" 

She  pointed  out  of  the  window  to  a  certain  spot. 

"  There  are  two  of  them,  miss.  A  big  ship  with  three 
masts.  And  a  little  ship,  just  behind,  with  one." 

I  looked  along  her  finger,  and  strained  my  eyes  to  see. 
All  I  could  make  out  was  a  dim,  grayish  mist,  with  something 
like  a  little  spot  or  blur  on  it  at  the  place  which  the  maid's 
finger  indicated  as  the  position  occupied  by  the  two  ships. 

The  Klea  struck  me  for  the  first  time  that  the  dimness 
which  I  had  attributed  to  the  mist  was,in  plain  truth,  t  IK:  dim- 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  401 

ness  in  my  own  eyes.  For  the  moment  I  was  a  little  start- 
led. I  left  the  window,  and  made  the  best  excuse  that  I 
could  to  the  girl.  As  soon  as  it  was  possible  to  dismiss  her 
I  sent  her  away,  and  bathed  my  eyes  with  one  of  Grosse's 
lotions,  and  then  tried  them  again  in  writing  this  entry.  To 
my  relief,  I  can  see  to  write  better  than  I  did  earlier  in  the 
morning.  Still  I  have  had  a  warning  to  pay  a  little  more 
attention  to  Grosse's  directions  than  I  have  hitherto  done. 
Is  it  possible  that  he  saw  something  in  the  state  of  my  eyes 
which  he  was  afraid  to  tell  me  of?  Nonsense  !  Grosse  is 
not  the  sort  of  man  who  shrinks  from  speaking  out.  I  have 
fatigued  my  eyes — that  is  all.  Let  me  shut  up  my  book,  and 
go  down  stairs  to  breakfast. 

Ten  o'clock. — For  a  moment  I  open  my  Journal. 

Something  has  happened  which  I  must  positively  set  down 
in  this  history  of  my  life.  I  am  so  vexed  and  so  angry ! 
The  maid  (wretched,  chattering  fool)  has  told  my  aunt  what 
passed  between  us  this  morning  at  my  window.  Miss  Batch- 
ford  has  taken  the  alarm,  and  has  insisted  on  writing  not  only 
to  Grosse,  but  to  my  father.  In  the  present  irnbittered 
state  of  my  father's  feeling  against  my  aunt,  he  will  either 
leave  her  letter  unanswered,  or  he  will  often d  her  by  an  an- 
gry reply.  In  either  case  I  shall  be  the  sutferer:  my  aunt's 
sense  of  injury — which  can  not  address  itself  to  my  father — 
will  find  a  convenient  object  to  assail  in  me.  I  shall  never 
hear  the  last  of  it.  Being  already  nervous  and  dispirited, 
the  prospect  of  finding  myself  involved  in  a  new  family  quar- 
rel quite  daunts  me.  I  feel  ungratefully  inclined  to  run  away 
from  Miss  Batchford  when  I  think  of  it ! 

No  signs  of  Oscar ;  and  no  news  of  Oscar — yet. 

Ttcclue  o'clock. — But  one  trial  more  was  wanted  to  make 
my  life  here  quite  unendurable.  The  trial  has  come. 

A  letter  from  Oscar  (sent  by  messenger  from  his  hotel)  has 
just  been  placed  in  my  hands.  It  informs  me  that  he  has 
decided  on  leaving  Kamsgate  by  the  next  train.  The  next 
train  starts  in  forty  minutes.  Good  God  !  what  am  I  to  do? 

My  eyes  are  burning.  I  know  it  does  them  harm  to  cry. 
How  can  I  help  crying?  It  is  all  over  between  us  if  I  let 
Oscar  go  away  alone — his  letter  as  good  as  tells  me  so.  Oh, 
why  have  I  behaved  so  coldly  to  him?  I  ought  to  make  any 
sacrifice  of  my  own  feelings,  to  atone  for  it.  And  yet  there 


402  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

is  an  obstinate  something  in  me  that  shrinks.  What  am  I 
to  do?  what  am  I  to  do? 

I  must  drop  the  pen.  and  try  if  I  can  think.  My  eyes  com- 
pletely fail  me.  I  can  write  no  more. 

[Note. — I  copy  the  letter  to  which  Lucilla  refers. 
Nugent's  own  assertion  is  that  he  wrote  it  in  a  moment  of 

o 

remorse,  to  give  her  an  opportunity  of  breaking  the  engage- 
ment by  which  she  innocently  supposed  herself  to  be  held  to- 
him.  He  declared  that  he  honestly  believed  the  letter  would 
offend  her  when  he  wrote  it.  The  other  interpretation  of  the 
document  is  that,  finding  himself  obliged  to  leave  Ramsajate 

7  O  O  O 

— under  penalty  (if  he  remained)  of  being  exposed  by  Grosse 
as  an  impostor  when  the  surgeon  visited  his  patient  on  the 
next  day  —  Nugent  seized  the  opportunity  of  making  his 
absence  the  means  of  working  on  Lucillu's  feelings  so  as  to 
persuade  her  to  accompany  him  to  London.  Don't  ask  me 
which  of  these  two  conclusions  I  favor.  For  reasons  which 
you  will  understand  when  you  have  come  to  the  end  of  my 
narrative,  I  would  rather  not  express  my  opinion  either  one 
way  or  the  other. 

Read  the  letter,  and  decide  for  yourselves : 

"My  DARLING, — After  a  sleepless  night  I  have  decided  on 
leaving  Ramsgate  by  the  next  train  that  starts  after  you  re- 
ceive these  lines.  Last  night's  experience  has  satisfied  me 
that  my  presence  here  (after  what  I  said  to  you  on  the  pier) 
only  distresses  you.  Some  influence  that  is  too  strong  for 
you  to  resist  has  changed  your  heart  toward  me.  When  the 
time  comes  for  you  to  determine  whether  you  will  be  my 
wife  on  the  conditions  that  I  have  proposed,  I  see  but  too 
plainly  that  you  will  say  No.  Let  me  make  it  less  hard  for 
you,  my  love,  to.  do  that  by  leaving  you  to  write  the  word, 
instead  of  saying  it  to  me.  If  you  wish  for  your  freedom, 
cost  me  what  it  may,  I  will  absolve  you  from  your  engage- 
ment. I  love  you  too  dearly  to  blame  you.  My  address  in 
London  is  on  the  other  leaf.  Farewell !  OSCAR." 

The  address  given  on  the  blank  leaf  is  at  a  hotel. 
A  few  lines  more  in  the  Journal  follow  the  lines  last  quoted 
in  this  place.     Except  a  word  or  two  here  and  there,  it  is  im- 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  403 

possible  any  longer  to  decipher  the  writing.  The  mischief 
done  to  her  eyes  by  her  reckless  use  of  them,  by  her  fits  of 
crying,  by  her  disturbed  nights,  by  the  long-continued  strain 
on  her  of  agitation  and  suspense,  has  evidently  justified  the 
worst  of  those  unacknowledged  forebodings  which  Grouse  felt 
when  he  saw  her.  The  last  lines  of  the  Journal  are,  as  writ- 
ing, actually  inferior  to  her  worst  writing  in  the  days  when 
she  was  blind. 

However,  the  course  which  she  ended  in  taking  on  receipt 
of  the  letter  which  you  have  just  read  is  sufficiently  indicated 
by  a  note  of  Nugent's  writing,  left  at  Miss  Batchford's  resi- 
dence at  Ramsgate  by  a  porter  from  the  railway.  After- 
events  make  it  necessary  to  preserve  this  note  also.  It  runs 
thus: 

"MADAM, — I  write,  by  Lucilla's  wish,  to  beg  that  you  will 
not  be  anxious  on  discovering  that  your  niece  has  left  Rams- 
gate.  She  accompanies  me,  at  my  express  request,  to  the 
house  of  a  married  lady  who  is  a  relative  of  mine,  and  under 
whose  care  she  will  remain  until  the  time  arrives  for  our 
marriage.  The  reasons  which  have  led  to  her  taking  this 
step,  and  which  oblige1  her  to  keep  her  new  place  of  residence 
concealed  for  the  present,  will  be  frankly  stated  to  you  and 
to  her  father  on  the  day  when  we  are  man  and  wife.  In  the 
mean  time  Lucilla  begs  that  you  will  excuse  her  abrupt  de- 
parture, and  that  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  send  this  letter 
on  to  her  father.  Both  you  and  he  will,  I  hope,  remember 
that  she  is  of  an  age  to  act  for  herself,  and  that  she  is  only 
hastening  her  marriage  with  a  man  to  whom  she  has  long 
been  engaged  with  the  sanction  and  approval  of  her  family. 
— Believe  me,  madam,  your  faithful  servant, 

"  OSCAR   DUBOURG." 

This  letter  was  delivered  at  luncheon-time — almost  at  the 
moment  when  the  servant  had  announced  to  her  mistress 
lhat,  Miss  Finch  was  nowhere  to  be  found,  and  that  her  trav- 
eling-bag had  disappeared  from  her  room.  The  London  train 
had  then  started.  Miss  Batch  ford,  having  no  right  to  inter- 
fere, decided — after  consultation  with  a  friend — on  at  once 
traveling  to  Dimchurch  and  placing  the  matter  in  Mr. Finch's 
hands.— P.] 


404  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 


MADAME  PRATOLUNGO'S  NARRATIVE  RESUMED. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY- SIXTH. 

THE    ITALIAN    STEAMER. 

LUCILLA'S  Journal  lias  told  you  all  that  Lucilla  can  tell. 
Permit  me  to  re-appear  in  these  pages.  Shall  I  say,  with  your 
favorite  English  clown,  re-appearing  every  year  in  your  bar- 
barous English  pantomime,  "Here  I  am  again:  how  do  you 
do?"  No — I  had  better  leave  that  out.  Your  clown  is  one 
of  your  national  institutions.  With  this  mysterious  source 
of  British  amusement  let  no  foreign  person  presume  to  trifle! 

I  arrived  at  Marseilles,  as  well  as  I  can  remember,  on  the 
fifteenth  of  August. 

You  can  not  be  expected  to  feel  my  interest  in  good  Papa. 
I  will  pass  over  this  venerable  victim  of  the  amiable  delusions 
cf  the  heart  as  rapidly  as  respect  and  affection  will  permit. 
The  duel  (I  hope  you  remember  the  duel?)  had  been  fought 
with  pistols,  and  the  bullet  had  not  been  extracted  when  I 
joined  my  sisters  at  the  sufferer's  bedside.  He  was  delirious 
and  did  not  know  me.  Two  days  later,  the  removal  of  the 
bullet  was  accomplished  by  the  surgeon  in  attendance.  For 
a  time  he  improved  after  this.  Then  there  was  a  relapse.  It 
was  only  on  the  first  of  September  that  we  were  permitted 
to  hope  that  he  might  still  be  spared  to  us. 

On  that  day  I  was  composed  enough  to  think  again  of  Lu- 
cilla, and  to  remember  Mrs.  Finch's  polite  request  to  me  that 
I  would  write  to  her  from  Marseilles. 

I  wrote  briefly,  telling  the  damp  lady  of  the  rectory  (only 
at  greater  length)  what  I  have  told  here.  My  main  motive 
in  doing  this  was,  I  confess,  to  obtain,  through  Mrs.  Finch, 
some  news  of  Lucilla.  After  posting  the  letter  I  attended 
to  another  duty  which  I  had  neglected  while  my  father  was 
in  danger  of  death.  I  went  to  the  person  to  whom  my  lawyer 
had  recommended  me,  to  institute  that  search  for  Oscar  which 
I  had  determined  to  set  on  foot  when  I  left  London.  The 
person  was  connected  with  the  police,  in  the  capacity  (as 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  405 

cearly  as  I  can  express  it  in  English)  of  a  sort  of  private  su- 
perintendent— not  officially  recognized,  but  secretly  trusted 
for  all  that. 

When  he  heard  of  the  time  that  had  elapsed  without  any 
discovery  of  the  slightest  trace  of  the  fugitive,  lie  looked 
grave,  and  declared,  honestly  enough,  that  he  doubted  if  he 
could  reward  my  confidence  in  him  by  proving  himself  to  be 
of  the  slightest  service  to  me.  Seeing,  however,  that  I  was 
earnestly  bent  on  making  some  sort  of  effort,  lie  put  a  last 
question  to  me  in  these  terms : 

"You  have  not  described  the  gentleman  yet.  Is  there,  by 
lucky  chance,  any  thing  remarkable  in  his  personal  appear- 
ance?" 

"There  is  something  very  remarkable,  Sir,"  I  answered. 

"Describe  it  exactly,  ma'am,  if  you  please." 

I  described  Oscar's  complexion.  My  excellent  superintend- 
ent showed  encouraging  signs  of  interest  as  he  listened.  He 
was  a  most  elegantly  dressed  gentleman,  with  the  gracious 
manners  of  a  prince.  It  was  quite  a  privilege  to  be  allowed 
to  talk  to  him. 

"  If  the  missing  man  has  passed  through  France,"  he  said, 
"  with  such  a  remarkable  face  as  that,  there  is  a  lair  chance 
of  finding  him.  I  will  set  preliminary  inquiries  going  at  the 
railway  station,  at  the  steam-packet  office,  and  at  the  port. 
You  shall  hear  the  result  to-morrow." 

I  went  back  to  good  Papa's  bedside — satisfied,  so  far. 

The  next  day  my  superintendent  honored  me  by  a  visit. 

"Any  news,  Sir?"  I  asked. 

"News  already,  ma'am.  The  clerk  at  the  steam- packet 
office  perfectly  well  remembers  selling  a  ticket  to  a  stranger 
with  a  terrible  blue  face.  Unhappily,  his  memory  is  not 
equally  good  as  to  other  matters.  He  can  not  accurately 
call  to  mind  either  the  name  of  the  stranger  or  the  place  for 
which  the  stranger  embarked.  We  know  that  he  must  either 
have  gone  to  some  port  in  Italy  or  to  some  port  in  the  East. 
And,  thus  far,  we  know  no  more." 

"What  are  we  to  do  next?"  I  inquired. 

"I  propose — with  your  permission — sending  personal  de- 
scriptions of  the  gentleman,  by  telegraph,  .to  the  different 
ports  in  Italy  first.  If  nothing  is  heard  of  him  in  reply,  we 
will  try  the  ports  in  the  East  next.  That  is  the  course  which 


406  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

I  have  the  honor  of  submitting  to  your  consideration.  Do 
you  approve  of  it?" 

I  cordially  approved  of  it,  and  waited  for  the  results  with 
all  the  patience  that  I  could  command. 

The  next  day  passed,  and  nothing  happened.  My  unhappy 
father  got  on  very  slowly.  The  vile  woman  who  had  caused 
the  disaster  (and  who  had  run  off  with  his  antagonist)  was 
perpetually  in  his  mind,  disturbing  him  and  keeping  him 
back.  Why  is  a  destroying  wretch  of  this  sort,  a  pitiless, 
treacherous,  devouring  monster  in  female  form,  allowed  to  be 
out  of  prison  ?  You  shut  up  in  a  cage  a  poor  tigress,  who 
only  eats  you  when  she  is  hungry,  and  can't  provide  for  her 
deal1  little  children  in  any  other  way,  and  you  let  the  other 
and  far  more  dangerous  beast  of  the  two  range  at  large  un- 
der protection  of  the  law  !  Ah,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  the  men 
make  the  laws.  Never  mind.  The  women  are  coming  to  the 
front.  Wait  a  little.  The  tigresses  on  two  legs  will  have  a 
bad  time  of  it  when  we  get  into  Parliament. 

On  the  fourth  of  the  month  the  superintendent  wrote  to 
me.  More  news  of  the  lost  Oscar  already  ! 

The  blue  man  had  disembarked  at  Genoa,  and  had  been 
traced  to  the  station  of  the  railway  running  to  Turin.  More 
inquiries  had  been,  thereupon,  sent  by  telegraph  to  Turin.  I:i 
the  mean  time,  and  in  the  possible  event  of  the  missing  per- 
son returning  to  England  by  way  of  Marseilles,  experienced 
men,  provided  with  a  personal  description  of  him,  would  bo 
posted  at  various  public  places,  to  pass  in  review  all  travelers 
arriving  either  by  land  or  sea,  and  to  report  to  me  if  the 
right  traveler  appeared.  Once  more  my  princely  superin- 
tendent submitted  this  course  to  my  consideration,  and  wait- 
ed for  my  approval — and  got  it,  with  my  admiration  thrown 
in  as  part  of  the  bargain. 

The  days  passed — and  good  Papa  still  vacillated  between 
better  and  worse. 

My  sisters  broke  down,  poor  souls,  under  their  anxieties. 
It  all  fell  as  usual  on  my  shoulders.  Day  by  day  my  pros- 
pect of  returning  to  England  seemed  to  grow  more  and  more 
remote.  Not  a  line  of  reply  reached  me  from  Mrs.  Finch.  This 
in  itself  fidgeted  and  disturbed  me.  Lucilla  was  now  hardly 
ever  out  of  my  thoughts.  Over  and  over  again  my  anxiety 
urged  me  to  run  the  risk,  and  write  to  her.  But  the  same 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  407 

obstacle  always  raised  itself  in  my  way.  After  what  had 
happened  between  us,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  write  to 
her  directly  without  first  restoring  myself  to  my  former 
place  in  her  estimation.  And  I  could  only  do  this  by  enter- 
ing into  particulars  which,  for  all  I  knew  to  the  contrary,  it 
might  still  be  cruel  and  dangerous  to  reveal. 

As  for  writing  to  Miss  Batchford,  I  had  already  tried  the 
old  lady's  patience  in  that  way  before  leaving  England.  If 
I  tried  it  again,  with  no  better  excuse  ibr  a  second  intrusion 
than  my  own  anxieties  might  suggest,  the  chances  were  that 
this  uncompromising  royalist  would  throw  my  letter  into  the 
fire,  and  treat  her  republican  correspondent  with  contempt- 
uous silence.  Grosse  was  the  third  and  last  person  from  whom 
I  might  hope  to  obtain  information.  But — shall  I  confess  it? 
—I  did  not  know  what  Lucilla  might  have  told  him  of  the 
estrangement  between  us,  and  my  pride  (remember,  if  you 
please,  that  I  am  a  poverty-stricken  foreigner)  revolted  at 
the  idea  of  exposing  myself  to  a  possible  repulse. 

However,  by  the  eleventh  of  the  month  1  began  to  feel  my 
suspense  so  keenly,  and  to  suffer  under  such  painful  doubts 
of  what  Nugent  might  be  doing  in  my  absence,  that  I  re- 
solved at  all  hazards  on  writing  to  Grosse.  It  was  at  least 
possible,  as  I  calculated — and  the  Journal  will  show  you  that 
I  calculated  right — that  Lucilla  had  only  told  him  of  my 
melancholy  errand  at  Marseilles,  and  had  mentioned  nothing 
more.  I  had  just  opened  my  desk,  when  our  surgeon  in  at- 
tendance entered  the  room,  and  announced  the  joyful  intelli- 
gence that  he  could  answer  at  last  for  the  recovery  of  good 
Papa. 

"  Can  I  go  back  to  England  ?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

"Not  immediately.  You  are  his  favorite  nurse — you  mus* 
gradually  accustom  him  to  the  idea  of  your  going  away.  If 
you  do  any  thing  sudden  you  may  cause  a  relapse." 

"I  will  do  nothing  sudden.  Only  tell  me  when  it  will  b.> 
safe — absolutely  safe — for  me  to  go?" 

"  Say  in  a  week." 

"On  the  eighteenth?" 

"  On  the  eighteenth." 

I  shut  up  my  writing-desk.  Within  a  few  days  I  might, 
now  hope  to  be  in  England  as  soon  as  I  could  receive  Grosse's 
answer  at  Marseilles.  Under  these  circumstances,  it  would 


408  POOR   MISS   FIXCH. 

be  better  to  wait  until  I  could  make  my  inquiries,  safely  and 
independently,  in  my  own  proper  person.  Comparison  of 
dates  will  show  that  if  I  had  written  to  the  German  oculist, 
it  would  have  been  too  late.  It  was  now  the  eleventh,  and 
Lucilla  had  left  Ramsgate  with  Nugent  on  the  fifth. 

All  this  time  but  one  small  morsel  of  news  rewarded  our 
inquiries  after  Oscar — and  even  that  small  morsel  seemed  to 
me  to  be  unworthy  of  belief. 

It  was  said  that  he  had  been  seen  at  a  military  hospital — 
the  hospital  of  Alessandria,  in  Piedmont,  I  think — acting, 
under  the  surgeons,  as  attendant  on  the  badly  wounded  men 
who  had  survived  the  famous  campaign  of  France  and  Italy 
against  Austria,  (l-car  in  mind,  if  you  please,  that  I  am 
writing  of  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-nine,  and  that 
the  peace  of  Villafranca  was  only  signed  in  the  July  of  that 
year.)  Occupation  as  hospital-man-nurse  was,  to  my  mind, 
occupation  so  utterly  at  variance  with  Oscar's  temperament 
and  character  that  I  persisted  in  considering  the  intelligence 
thus  received  of  him  to  be  on  the  face  of  it  false. 

On  the  seventeenth  of  the  month  I  had  got  my  passport 
regulated,  and  had  packed  up  the  greater  part  of  my  bag- 
gage in  anticipation  of  my  journey  back  to  England  on  the 
next  day. 

Carefully  as  I  had  tried  to  accustom  his  mind  to  the  idea, 
my  poor  father  remained  so  immovably  reluctant  to  let  me 
leave  him  that  I  was  obliged  to  consent  to  a  sort  of  compro- 
mise. I  promised,  when  the  business  which  took  me  to  En- 
gland was  settled,  to  return  again  to  Marseilles,  and  to  travel 
back  with  him  to  his  home  in  Paris  as  soon  as  he  was  fit  to 
be  moved.  On  this  condition  I  gained  permission  to  go. 
Poor  as  I  was,  I  infinitely  preferred  charging  my  slender 
purse  with  the  expenses  of  the  double  journey  to  remaining 
'any  longer  in  ignorance  of  what  was  going  on  at  Kamsgnte 
— or  at  Dimchurch,  as  the  case  might  be.  Now  that  my 
mind  was  free  from  anxiety  about  my  father — I  don't  know 
which  tormented  me  most — my  eagerness  to  set  myself  right 
with  my  sister-friend,  or  my  vague  dread  of  the  mischief 
which  Nugent  might  have  done  while  my  back  was  turned. 
Over  and  over  again  I  asked  myself  whether  Miss  Batch  ford 
had  or  had  not  shown  my  letter  to  LuciMa.  Over  and  over 
again  I  wondered  whether  it  had  been  my  happy  privilege 


POOIl    MISS    FINCH.  409 

to  reveal  Nugent  under  his  true  aspect,  and  to  preserve  Lu- 
cilla  for  Oscar  after  all. 

Toward  the  afternoon,  on  the  seventeenth,!  went  out  alone 
to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  and  a  look  at  the  shop  windows. 
I  don't  care  who  or  what  she  may  be — high  or  low,  handsome 
or  ugly,  young  or  old — it  always  relieves  a  woman's  mind  to 
look  at  the  shop  windows. 

I  had  not  been  five  minutes  out  before  I  met  my  princely 
superintendent. 

"Any  news  for  me  to-day?"  I  asked. 

"  Not  yet." 

"Not  yet?"  I  repeated.     "You  expect  news,  then?" 

"We  expect  an  Italian  steam-ship  to  arrive  in  port  before 
the  evening,"  said  the  superintendent.  "  Who  knows  what 
may  happen  ?" 

He  bowed  and  left  me.  I  felt  no  great  elation  on  contem- 
plating the  barren  prospect  which  his  last  words  had  placed 
before  me.  So  many  steamers  had  arrived  at  Marseilles, 
without  bringing  any  news  of  the  missing  man,  that  I  at- 
tached very  little  importance  to  the  arrival  of  the  Italian 
ship.  However,  I  had  nothing  to  do — I  wanted  a  walk — and 
I  thought  I  might  as  well  stroll  down  to  the  port  and  see  the 
vessel  come  in. 

The  vessel  was  just  entering  the  harbor  by  the  time  I  got 
to  the  landing-stage. 

I  found  our  man  employed  to  investigate  travelers  arriv- 
ing by  sea  punctually  at  his  post.  His  influence  broke 
through  the  vexatious  French  rules  and  regulations  which 
forbid  all  freedom  of  public  movement  within  official  limits, 
and  procured  me  a  place  in  the  room  at  the  custom-house 
through  which  the  passengers  by  the  steamer  would  be 
obliged  to  pass.  I  accepted  his  polite  attention,  simply  be- 
cause I  was  glad  to  sit  down  and  rest  in  a  quiet  place  after 
my  walk — not  even  the  shadow  of  an  idea  that  any  thing 
would  come  of  my  visit  to  the  harbor  being  in  my  mind  at 
the  time. 

After  a  long  interval  the  passengers  began  to  stream  into 
the  room.  Looking  languidly  enough  at  the  first  half-dozen 
strangers  who  came  in,  I  felt  myself  touched  on  the  shoulder 
from  behind.  There  was  our  man,  in  a  state  of  indescribable 
excitement,  entreating  me  to  compose  myself ! 

S 


410  POOK    MISS    FINCH. 

Being  perfectly  composed  already,  I  stared  at  him,  and 
asked,  "Why?" 

"  He  is  here  !"  cried  the  man.     "  Look  !" 

He  pointed  to  the  passengers  still  crowding  into  the  room. 
I  looked,  and,  instantly  losing  my  head,  started  up  with  a 
cry  that  turned  every  body's  eyes  on  me.  Yes !  there  was 
the  poor,  dear  discolored  face — there  was  Oscar  himself, 
thunderstruck,  on  his  side,  at  the  sight  of  Me! 

I  snatched  the  key  of  his  portmanteau  out  of  his  hand,  and 
gave  it  to  our  man,  who  undertook  to  submit  it  to  the  cus- 
tom-house examination,  and  to  bring  it  to  my  lodging  after- 
ward. Holding  Oscar  last  by  the  arm,  I  pushed  my  way 
through  the  crowd  in  the  room,  got  outside,  and  hailed  a  cab 
at  the  dock-gates.  The  people  about,  noticing  my  agitation, 
said  to  each  other,  compassionately,  "It's  the  blue  man's 
mother!"  Idiots!  They  might  have  seen,  I  think,  that  I 
was  only  old  enough  to  be  his  sister. 

Once  sheltered  in  the  vehicle,  I  could  draw  my  breath 
again,  and  reward  him  for  all  the  anxiety  he  had  caused  mo 
by  giving  him  a  kiss.  I  might  have  given  him  a  thousand 
kisses.  Amazement  made  him  a  perfectly  passive  creature 
in  my  hands.  He  only  repeated,  faintly,  over  and  over  again, 
"  What  does  it  mean  ?  what  does  it  mean?" 

"  It  means  that  you  have  friends,  you  wretch,  who  are  fools 
enough  to  be  too  fond  of  you  to  give  you  up  !"  I  said.  "I 
am  one  of  the  fools.  You  will  come  to  England  with  me  to- 
morrow, and  see  for  yourself  if  Lucilla  is  not  another." 

That  reference  to  Lucilla  restored  him  to  the  possession  of 
his  senses.  He  began  to  ask  the  questions  that  naturally  oc- 
curred to  him  under  the  circumstances.  Having  plenty  of 
questions  in  reserve,  on  my  side,  I  told  him  briefly  enough 
what  had  brought  me  to  Marseilles,  and  what  I  had  done 
during  my  residence  in  that  city  toward  discovering  the 
place  of  his  retreat. 

When  he  asked  me  next — after  a  momentary  struggle  with 
himself — what  I  could  tell  him  of  Nugent  and  Lucilla,  it  is 
not  to  be  denied  that  I  hesitated  before  I  answered  him.  A 
moment's  consideration,  however,  was  enough  to  decide  me 
on  speaking  out,  for  this  plain  reason,  that  a  moment's  con- 
sideration reminded  me  of  the  troubles  and  annoyances  which 
had  already  befallen  iis  as  the  result  of  concealing  the.  truth. 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  411 

I  told  Oscar  honestly  all  that  I  have  related  here — starting 
from  my  night  interview  with  Nugent  at  Browndown,  and 
ending  with  my  precautionary  measures  for  the  protection 
of  Lucilla  while  she  was  living  under  the  care  of  her  aunt. 

I  was  greatly  interested  in  watching  the  effect  which  these 
disclosures  produced  on  Oscar. 

My  observation  led  me  to  form  two  conclusions.  First 
conclusion,  that  time  and  absence  had  not  produced  the 
slightest  change  in  the  love  which  the  poor  fellow  bore  to 
Lucilla.  Second  conclusion,  that  nothing  but  absolute  proof 
would  induce  him  to  agree  in  my  unfavorable  opinion  of  his 
brother's  character.  It  was  in  vain  I  declared  that  Nugent 
had  quitted  England  pledged  to  find  him,  and  had  left  it  to 
me  (as  the  event  had  now  proved)  to  make  the  discovery. 
He  owned  readily  that  he  had  seen  nothing  and  heard  noth- 
ing of  Nugent.  Nevertheless  his  confidence  in  his  brother 
remained  unshaken.  "  Nugent  is  the  soul  of  honor,"  he  re- 
peated again  and  again,  with  a  side-look  at  me  which  sug- 
gested that  my  frankly  avowed  opinion  of  his  brother  had 
hurt  and  offended  him. 

I  had  barely  time  to  notice  this  before  we  reached  my 
lodgings.  He  appeared  to  be  unwilling  to  follow  me  into 
the  house. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  some  proof  to  support  what  you  have 
said  of  Nugent,"  he  resumed,  stopping  in  the  court-yard. 
"Have  you  written  tt>  England  since  you  have  been  here? 
and  have  you  had  a  reply?" 

"  I  have  written  to  Mrs.  Finch,"  I  answered  ;  "  and  I  have 
not  had  a  word  in  reply." 

"Have  you  written  to  no  one  else?" 

I  explained  to  him  the  position  in  which  I  stood  toward 
Miss  Batchford,  and  the  hesitation  which  I  had  felt  about 
writing  toGrosse.  The  smouldering  resentment  against  me 
that  had  been  in  him  ever  since  I  had  spoken  of  his  brother 
and  of  Lucilla  flamed  up  at  last. 

"I  entirely  disagree  with  you,"  he  broke  out,  angrily. 
"You  are  wronging  Lucilla  and  wronging  Nugent.  Lucilla  is 
incapable  of  saying  any  thing  against  you  to  (irosse,  and  Nu- 
gent is  equally  incapable  of  misleading  her  as  you  suppose. 
What  horrible  ingratitude  you  attribute  to  one  of  them — 
and  what  horrible  baseness  to  the  other!  I  have  listened  to 


412  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

you  as  patiently  as  I  can  ;  and  I  feel  sincerely  obliged  by  the 
interest  which  you  have  shown  in  me — but  I  can  not  remain 
in  your  company  any  longer.  Madame  Pratoltingo,  your 
suspicions  are  inhuman !  You  have  not  brought  forward 
a  shadow  of  proof  in  support  of  them.  I  will  send  here  for 
my  luggage,  if  you  will  allow  me,  and  I  will  start  for  En- 
gland by  the  next  train.  After  what  you  have  said,  I  can't 
rest  till  I  have  found  out  the  truth  for  myself." 

This  was  my  reward  for  all  the  trouble  that  I  had  taken 
to  discover  Oscar  Dubourg  !  Never  mind  the  money  I  had 
spent  —  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  care  about  money  —  only 
consider  the  trouble.  If  I  had  been  a  man,  I  do  really  think 
I  should  have  knocked  him  down.  Being  only  a  woman,  I 
dropped  him  a  low  courtesy,  and  stung  him  with  my  tongue* 

"As  you  please,  Sir,"  I  said.  "I  have  done  my  best  to 
serve  you — and  you  quarrel  with  me  and  leave  me  in  return. 
Go  !  You  are  not  the  first  fool  who  has  quarreled  with  his 
best  friend." 

Either  the  words  or  the  courtesy  —  or  both  together  — 
brought  him  to  his  senses.  He  made  me  an  apology,  which 
I  received.  And  he  looked  excessively  foolish,  which  put  me 
in  an  excellent  humor  again.  "You  stupid  boy,"  I  said,  tak- 
ing his  arm,  and  leading  him  to  the  stairs.  "When  we  first 
met  at  Dimchurch  did  you  find  me  a  suspicious  woman  or  an 
inhuman  woman?  Answer  me  that !" 

He  answered  frankly  enough. 

"  I  found  you  all  that  was  kind  and  good.  Still,  it  is  sure- 
ly only  natural  to  want  some  confirmation —  He  checked 
himself  there,  and  reverted  abruptly  to  my  letter  to  Mrs. 
Finch.  The  silence  of  the  rector's  wife  evidently  alarmed 
him.  "How  long  is  it  since  you  wrote?"  he  inquired. 

"  As  long  ago  as  the  first  of  this  month,"  I  replied. 

He  fell  into  thought.  We  ascended  the  next  flight  of 
stairs  in  silence.  At  the  landing  he  stopped  me,  and  spoke 
again.  My  unanswered  letter  was  still  uppermost  in  his 
mind. 

"  Mrs.  Finch  loses  every  thing  that  can  be  lost,"  he  said. 
"Is  it  not  likely — with  her  habits — that  when  she  had  writ- 
ten her  answer,  and  wanted  your  letter  to  look  at  to  put  the 
address  on  it,  your  letter  was  like  her  handkerchief,  or  her 
novel,  or  any  thing  else — not  to  be  found?" 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  413 

So  far,  no  doubt,  this  was  quite  in  Mrs.  Finch's  character. 
I  could  see  that,  but  my  mind  was  too  much  preoccupied  to 
draw  the  inference  that  followed.  Oscar's  next  words  en- 
lightened me. 

"Have  you  tried  the  Poste-Restante?"  he  asked. 

What  could  I  possibly  have  been  thinking  of?  Of  course 
she  had  lost  my  letter.  Of  course  the  whole  house  would 
be  upset  in  looking  for  it,  and  the  rector  would  silence  the 
uproar  by  ordering  his  wife  to  try  the  Poste-Restante.  How 
strangely  we  had  changed  places  !  Instead  of  my  clear  head 
thinking  for  Oscar,  here  was  Oscar's  clear  head  thinking  for 
Me.  Is  my  stupidity  quite  incredible  ?  Remember,  if  you 
please,  what  a  weight  of  trouble  and  anxiety  had  lain  on  my 
mind  while  I  was  at  Marseilles.  Can  one  think  of  every 
thing  while  one  is  afflicted  as  I  was  ?  Not  even  such  a  clever 
person  as  You  can  do  that.  If,  as  the  saying  is,  "Homer 
sometimes  nods" — why  not  Madame  Pratolungo? 

"I  never  thought  of  the  Poste-Restante,"  I  said  to  Oscar. 
"  If  you  don't  mind  going  back  a  little  way,  shall  we  inquire 
at  once  ?" 

He  was  perfectly  willing.  We  went  down  stairs  again, 
and  out  into  the  street.  On  our  way  to  the  post-office  I 
seized  my  first  opportunity  of  making  Oscar  give  me  some 
account  of  himself. 

"  I  have  satisfied  your  curiosity  to  the  best  of  my  ability," 
I  said,  as  we  walked  arm  in  arm  through  the  streets.  "  Now 
suppose  you  satisfy  mine.  A  report  of  your  having  been 
seen  in  a  military  hospital  in  Italy  is  the  only  report  of  you 
which  has  reached  me  here.  Of  course  it  is  not  true?" 

"  It  is  perfectly  true." 

"You,  in  a  hospital,  nursing  wounded  soldiers!" 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  have  been  doing." 

No  words  could  express  my  astonishment.  I  could  only 
stop  and  look  at  him. 

"Was  that  the  occupation  which  you  had  in  view  when 
you  left  England  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  had  no  object  in  leaving  England  but  the  object  which 
I  mentioned  in  my  letter  to  you.  After  what  had  happened, 
I  owed  it  to  Lucilla  and  I  owed  it  to  Nugent  to  go.  I  left 
England  without  caring  where  I  went.  The  train  to  Lyons 
happened  to  be  the  first  train  that  started  on  my  arrival  at 


414  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

Paris.  I  took  the  first  train.  At  Lyons  I  saw  by  chance  an 
account  in  a  French  newspaper  of  the  sufferings  of  some  of 
the  badly  wounded  men  left  still  uncured  after  the  battle  of 
Solferino.  I  felt  an  impulse,  in  my  own  wretchedness,  to 
help  these  other  sufferers  in  their  misery.  On  every  other 
side  of  it  my  life  was  wasted.  The  one  worthy  use  to  which 
I  could  put  it  was  to  employ  myself  in  doing  good ;  and 
here  was  good  to  be  done.  I  managed  to  get  the  necessary 
letters  of  introduction  at  Turin.  With  the  help  of  these  I 
made  myself  of  some  use  (under  the  regular  surgeons  and 
dressers)  in  nursing  the  poor  mutilated,  crippled  men ;  and 
I  have  helped  a  little  afterward,  from  my  own  resources,  in 
starting  them  comfortably  in  new  ways  of  life." 

In  those  manly  and  simple  words  he  told  me  his  story. 

Once  more  I  felt,  what  I  had  felt  already,  that  there  were 
hidden  reserves  of  strength  in  the  character  of  this  innocent 
young  fellow  which  had  utterly  escaped  my  superficial  ob- 
servation of  him.  In  choosing  his  vocation,  he  was,  no 
doubt,  only  following  the  conventional  modern  course  in  such 
cases.  Despair  has  its  fashions  as  well  as  dress.  Ancient 
despair  (especially  of  Oscar's  sort)  used  to  turn  soldier,  or  go 
into  a  monastery.  Modern  despair  turns  nurse,  binds  up 
wounds,  gives  physic,  and  gets  cured  or  not  in  that  useful 
but  nasty  way.  Oscar  had  certainly  struck  out  nothing  new 
for  himself:  he  had  only  followed  the  fashion.  Still,  it  im- 
plied, as  I  thought,  both  courage  and  resolution  to  have  con- 
quered the  obstacles  which  he  must  have  overcome,  and  to 
have  held  steadily  on  his  course  after  he  had  once  entered  it. 
Having  begun  by  quarreling  with  him,  I  was  in  a  fair  way 
to  end  by  respecting  him.  Surely  this  man  was  worth  pre- 
serving for  Lucilla,  after  all ! 

"May  I  ask  where  you  were  going  when  we  met  at  the 
port?"  I  continued.  "Have  you  left  Italy  because  there 
were  no  more  wounded  soldiers  to  be  cured?" 

"•There  was  no  more  work  for  me  at  the  hospital  to  which 
I  was  attached,"  he  said.  "And  there  were  certain  obsta- 
cles in  my  way,  as  a  stranger  and  a  Protestant,  among  the 
poor  and  afflicted  population  outside  the  hospital.  I  might 
have  overcome  those  obstacles,  with  little  trouble,  among  a 
people  so  essentially  good-tempered  and  courteous  as  the 
Italians,  if  I  had  tried.  But  it  occurred  to  me  that  my  first 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  415 

duty  was  to  my  own  countrymen.  The  misery  crying  for 
relief  in  London  is  misery  not  paralleled  in  any  city  of  Italy. 
When  you  met  me  I  was  on  my  way  to  London  to  place  my 
services  at  the  disposal  of  any  clergyman  in  a  poor  neigh- 
borhood who  would  accept  such  help  as  I  can  offer  him." 
He  paused  a  little — hesitated — and  added,  in  lower  tones: 
"That  was  one  of  my  objects  in  returning  to  England.  It  is 
only  honest  to  own  to  you  that  I  had  another  motive  be- 
sides." 

"A  motive  connected  with  your  brother  and  with  Lucil- 
la  ?"  I  suggested. 

"Yes.  Don't  misinterpret  me.  I  am  not  returning  to  En- 
gland to  retract  what  I  said  to  Nugent.  I  still  leave  him 
free  to  plead  his  own  cause  with  Lucilla  in  his  own  person.  I 
am  still  resolved  not  to  distress  myself  and  distress  them  by 
returning  to  Dimchurch.  But  I  have  a  longing  that  nothing 
can  subdue  to  know  how  it  has  ended  between  them.  Don't 
ask  me  to  say  more  than  that!  In  spite  of  the  time  that  has 
passed,  it  breaks  my  heart  to  talk  of  Lucilla.  I  had  looked 
forward  to  a  meeting  with  you  in  London,  and  to  hearing 
what  I  longed  to  hear  from  your  lips.  Judge  for  yourself 
what  my  hopes  were  when  I  first  saw  your  face ;  and  forgive 
me  if  I  felt  my  disappointment  bitterly  when  I  found  that 
you  had  really  no  news  to  tell,  and  when  you  spoke  of  Nu- 
gent as  you  did."  He  stopped,  and  pressed  my  arm  earnest- 
ly. "Suppose  I  am  right  about  Mrs.  Finch's  letter?"  he 
added.  "  Suppose  it  should  really  be  waiting  for  you  at  the 
post?" 

"Well?" 

"  The  letter  may  contain  the  news  which  I  most  want  to 
hear." 

I  checked  him  there.  "  I  am  not  "sure  of  that,"  I  answer- 
ed "I  don't  know  what  news  you  most  want  to  hear." 

I  said  those  words  with  a  purpose.  What  was  the  news 
he  was  longing  for?  In  spite  of  what  he  had  smd,  my  wom- 
an's observation  answered,  News  that  Lucilla  is  still  a  sin- 
gle woman.  My  object  in  speaking  as  I  had  just  spoken  was 
to  tempt  him  into  a  reply  which  might  confirm  me  in  this 
opinion.  He  evaded  the  reply.  Was  that  confirmation  in 
itself?  Yes — as  I  think  ! 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  there  is  in  the  letter?"  he  asked, 


416  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

passing,  as  you  see,  entirely  over  what  I  had  just  said  to 
him. 

"  Yes,  if  you  wish  it,"  I  answered,  not  over-well  pleased 
with  his  want  of  confidence  in  me. 

"  No  matter  what  the  letter  contains  ?"  he  went  on,  evi- 
dently doubting  me. 

I  said  Yes,  again — that  one  word,  and  no  more. 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  asking  too  much,"  he  persisted, 
"  to  ask  you  to  let  me  read  the  letter  myself?" 

My  temper,  as  you  are  well  aware  by  this  time,  is  not  the 
temper  of  a  saint.  I  drew  my  arm  smartly  out  of  his  arm, 
and  I  surveyed  him  with  what  poor  Pratolungo  used  to  call 
"  my  Roman  look." 

"  Mr.  Oscar  Dubourg !  say,  in  plain  words,  that  you  dis- 
trust me." 

He  protested,  of  course,  that  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind — 
without  producing  the  slightest  effect  on  me.  Just  run  over 
in  your  mind  the  insults,  worries,  and  anxieties  which  had 
assailed  me  as  the  reward  for  my  friendly  interest  in  this 
man's  welfare.  Or,  if  that  is  too  great  an  effort,  be  so  good 
as  to  remember  that  Lucilla's  farewell  letter  to  me  at  Dim- 
church  was  now  followed  by  the  equally  ungracious  expres- 
sion of  Oscar's  distrust — and  this  at  a  time  when  I  had  had 
serious  trials  of  my  own  to  sustain  at  my  father's  bedside.  I 
think  you  will  admit  that  a  sweeter  temper  than  mine  might 
have  not  unnaturally  turned  a  little  sour  under  present  cir- 
cumstances. 

I  answered  not  a  word  to  Oscar's  protestations — I  only 
searched  vehemently  in  the  pocket  of  my  dress. 

"Here,"  I  said,  opening  my  card-case,  "is  my  address  in 
this  place ;  and  here,"  I  went  on,  producing  the  document, 
"  is  my  passport,  if  they  want  it." 

I  forced  the  card  and  the  passport  into  his  hands.  He 
took  them  in  helpless  astonishment. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  these?"  he  asked. 

"Take  them  to  the  Poste-Restante.  If  there  is  a  letter  for 
me  Avith  the  Dimchurch  post-mark,  I  authorize  you  to  open 
it.  Read  it  before  it  comes  into  my  hands  —  and  then  per- 
haps you  will  be  satisfied." 

He  declared  that  he  would  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  and 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  417 

tried  to  force  my  documents  back  into  my  own  posses- 
sion. 

"  Please  yourself,"  I  said.  "  I  have  done  with  you  and 
your  affairs.  Mrs.  Finch's  letter  is  of  no  earthly  consequence 
to  me.  If  it  is  at  the  Poste-Kestante,  I  shall  not  trouble  my- 
self to  ask  for  it.  What  concern  have  I  with  news  about 
Lucilla?  What  does  it  matter  to  me  whether  she  is  married 
or  not?  I  am  going  back  to  my  father  and  my  sisters.  De- 
cide for  yourself  whether  you  want  Mrs.  Finch's  letter  or  not." 

That  settled  it.  He  went  his  way  with  my  documents  to 
the  post-office ;  and  I  went  mine  back  to  the  lodging. 

Arrived  in  my  room,  I  still  held  to  the  resolution  which  I 
had  expressed  to  Oscar  in  the  street.  Why  should  I  leave 
my  poor  old  father  to  go  back  to  England,  and  mix  myself 
up  in  Lucilla's  affairs?  After  the  manner  in  which  she  had 
taken  her  leave  of  me,  had  I  any  reasonable  prospect  of  be- 
ing civilly  received?  Oscar  was  on  his  way  back  to  En- 
gland— let  Oscar  manage  his  own  affairs ;  let  them  all  three 
(Oscar,  Nugent,  Lucilla)  fight  it  out  together  among  them- 
selves. What  had  I,  Pratolungo's  widow,  to  do  with  this 
trumpery  family  entanglement  ?  Nothing  !  It  was  a  warm 
day  for  the  time  of  year — Pratolungo's  widow,  like  a  wise 
woman,  determined  to  make  herself  comfortable.  She  un- 
locked her  packed  box  ;  she  loosened  her  stays;  she  put  on 
her  dressing-gown  ;  she  took  a  turn  in  the  room — and,  if  you 
had  come  across  her  at  tltnt  moment,  I  wouldn't  have  stood 
in  your  shoes  for  something,  I  can  tell  you  ! 

(What  do  you  think  of  my  consistency  by  this  time? 
How  often  have  I  changed  my  mind  about  Lucilla  and  Os- 
car? Reckon  it  up  from  the  time  when  I  left  Dimchurch. 
What  a  picture  of  perpetual  self-contradiction  I  present — 
and  how  improbable  it  is  that  I  should  act  in  this  illogical 
way!  You  never  alter  your  mind  under  the  influence  of 
your  temper  or  your  circumstances.  No:  you  are  what 
they  call  a  consistent  character.  And  I?  Oh,  I  am  only  a 
human  being — and  I  feel  painfully  conscious  that  I  have  no 
business  to  be  in  a  book.) 

In  about  half  an  hour's  time,  the  servant  appeared  with  a 
little  paper  parcel  for  me.  It  had  been  left  by  a  stranger 
with  an  English  accent  and  a  terrible  face.  He  had  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  calling  a  little  Inter.  The  servant, 

S  2 


418  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

a  bouncing  fat  wench,  trembled  as  she  repeated  the  message, 
arid  asked  if  there  was  any  thing  amiss  between  me  and  the 
man  with  the  terrible  face. 

I  opened  the  parcel.  It  contained  my  passport,  and,  sure 
enough,  the  letter  from  Mrs.  Finch. 

Had  he  opened  it  ?  Yes  !  He  had  not  been  able  to  resist 
the  temptation  to  read  it.  And  more,  he  had  written  a  line 
or  two  on  it  in  pencil,  thus :  "  As  soon  as  I  am  fit  to  see  you, 
I  will  implore  your  pardon.  I  dare  not  trust  myself  in  your 
presence  yet.  Read  the  letter,  and  you  will  understand 
why." 

I  opened  the  letter. 

It  \vas  dated  the  fifth  of  September.  I  ran  over  the  first 
few  sentences  carelessly  enough.  Thanks  for  my  letter — 
congratulations  on  my  father's  prospect  of  recovery — infor- 
mation about  baby's  gums  and  the  rector's  last  sermon — 
more  information  about  somebody  else,  which  Mrs.  Finch 
felt  quite  sure  would  interest  and  delight  me.  What ! ! ! 
"Mr.  Oscar  Dubourg  has  come  back,  and  is  now  with  Lucilla 
at  Rarasgate." 

I  crumpled  the  letter  up  in  my  hand.  Nugent  had  justi- 
fied my  worst  anticipations  of  what  he  would  do  in  my  ab- 
sence. What  did  the  true  Mi'.  Oscar  Dubourg,  reading  that 
sentence  at  Marseilles,  think  of  his  brother  now  ?  We  are 
all  mortal — we  are  all  wicked.  It  is  monstrous,  but  it  is 
true.  I  had  a  moment's  triumph. 

The  wicked  moment  gone,  I  was  good  again — that  is  to 
say,  I  was  ashamed  of  myself. 

I  smoothed  out  the  letter,  and  looked  eagerly  for  news  of 
Lucilla's  health.  If  the  news  was  favorable,  my  letter  com- 
mitted to  Miss  Batchford's  care  must  have  been  shown  to 
Lucilla  by  this  time,  must  have  exposed  Nugent's  abomina- 
ble personation  of  his  brother,  and  must  have  thus  preserved 
her  for  Oscar.  In  that  case,  all  would  be  well  again  (and 
my  darling  herself  would  own  it) — thanks  to  Me! 

After  telling  me  the  news  from  Ramsgate,  Mrs.  Finch  be- 
gan to  drift  into  what  you  call  Twaddle.  She  had  just  dis- 
covered (exactly  as  Oscar  had  supposed)  that  she  had  lost 
my  letter.  She  would  keep  her  own  letter  back  until  the 
next  day  on  the  chance  of  finding  it.  If  she  failed  she  must 
try  Post-Restante,  nt  the  suggestion  (not  of  Mr.  Finch  — 


POOR.  MISS    FINCH.  419 

there  I  was  wrong) — at  the  suggestion  of  Zillah,  who  had 
relatives  in  foreign  parts,  and  had  tried  Poste-Kestante  in 
her  case  too.  So  Mrs.  Finch  driveled  mildly  on,  in  her  large, 
loose,  untidy  handwriting,  to  the  bottom  of  the  third  page. 

I  turned  over.  The  handwriting  suddenly  grew  untidier 
than  ever;  two  great  blots  defaced  the  paper;  the  style  be- 
came feebly  hysterical.  Good  Heavens !  what  did  I  read 
when  I  made  it  out  at  last?  See  for  yourselves;  here  are 
the  words: 

"  Some  hours  have  passed — it  is  just  tea-time — oh,  my  dear 
friend,  I  can  hardly  hold  the  pen,  I  tremble  so — would  you 
believe  it,  Miss  Batchford  has  arrived  at  the  rectory  —  she 
brings  the  dreadful  news  that  Lucilla  has  eloped  with  Oscar 
— we  don't  know  why  —  we  don't  know  where,  except  that 
they  have  gone  away  together  privately — a  letter  from  Os- 
car tells  Miss  Batchford  as  much  as  that,  and  no  more — oh, 
pray  come  back  as  soon  as  you  can — Mr.  Finch  washes  his 
hands  of  it — and  Miss  Batchford  has  left  the  house  again  in 
a  fury  with  him  —  I  am  in  a  dreadful  agitation,  and  I  have 
given  it,  Mr.  Finch  says,  to  baby,  who  is  screaming  black  in 
the  face.  Yours  affectionately,  AMELIA  FINCH." 

All  the  rages  I  had  ever  been  in  before  in  my  life  were  as 
nothing  compared  with  the  rage  that  devoured  me  when  I 
had  read  that  fourth  page  of  Mrs.  Finch's  letter.  Nugent 
had  got  the  better  of  me  and  my  precautions  !  Nugent  had 
robbed  his  brother  of  Lucilla,  in  the  vilest  manner,  with  per- 
fect impunity  !  I  cast  all  feminine  restraints  to  the  winds. 
I  sat  down  with  my  legs  anyhow,  like  a  man.  I  rammed  my 
hands  into  the  pockets  of  my  dressing-gown.  Did  I  cry? 
A  word  in  your  ear — and  let  it  go  no  farther.  I  swore. 

How  long  the  tit  lasted  I  don't  know.  I  only  remember 
that  I  was  disturbed  by  a  knock  at  my  door. 

I  flung  open  the  door  in  a  fury,  and  confronted  Oscar  on 
the  threshold. 

There  was  a  look  in  his  face  that  instantly  quieted  me. 
There  was  a  tone  in  his  voice  that  brought  the  tears  sudden- 
ly into  my  eyes. 

"I  must  leave  for  England  in  two  hours,"  he  said.  "  Will 
you  forgive  me,  and  go  with  me?" 


420  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

Only  those  words !  And  yet — it'  yon  had  seen  him,  if  you 
had  heard  him,  as  he  spoke  them  —  you  would  have  been 
ready  to  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  with  him,  as  I  was;  and 
you  would  have  told  him  so,  as  I  did. 

In  two  hours  more  we  were  in  the  train  on  our  way  to  En- 
gland. 


.  CHAPTER  THE  FORTY -SEVENTH. 

ON    THE     WAY     TO     THE     END.  FIRST    STAGE. 

You  will  perhaps  expect  me  to  give  some  account  of  how 
Oscar  bore  the  discovery  of  his  brother's  conduct. 

I  find  it  by  no  means  easy  to  do  this.     Oscar  baffled  me. 

The  first  words  of  any  importance  which  he  addressed  to 
me  were  spoken  on  our  way  to  the  station.  Rousing  him- 
self from  his  own  thoughts,  he  said,  very  earnestly, 

"I  want  to  know  what  conclusion  you  have  drawn  from 
Mrs.  Finch's  letter." 

Naturally  enough,  under  the  circumstances,  I  tried  to  avoid 
answering  him.  He  was  not  to  be  put  off  in  that  way. 

"You  will  do  me  a  favor,"  he  went  on,  "if  you  will  reply 
to  my  question.  The  letter  has  bred  in  me  such  a  vile  sus- 
picion of  my  dear,  good  brother,  who  never  deceived  me  in 
his  life,  that  I  would  rather  believe  I  am  out  of  my  mind 
than  believe  in  my  own  interpretation  of  it.  Do  you  infer 
from  what  Mrs.  Finch  writes  that  Nugent  has  presented 
himself  to  Lucilla  under  my  name  ?  Do  you  believe  that  he 
has  persuaded  her  to  leave  her  friends  under  the  impression 
that  she  has  yielded  to  My  entreaties,  and  trusted  herself  to 
My  care  ?" 

There  was  no  avoiding  it.  I  answered  in  the  fewest  and 
the  plainest  words,  "  That  is  what  your  brother  has  done." 

I  saw  a  change  pass  over  him  when  I  made  the  reply. 

"That  is  what  my  brother  has  done,"  he  repeated.  "Aft- 
er all  that  I  sacrificed  to  him — after  all  that  I  trusted  to 
his  honor  when  I  left  England."  He  paused  and  considered 
a  little.  "What  does  such  a  man  deserve?"  he  went  on, 
speaking  to  himself  in  a  low,  threatening  tone  that  startled 
me. 

"He  deserves,"  I  said,  "what  he  will  get  when  we  reach 
England.  You  have  only  to  show  yourself  to  make  him  re- 


:*;H)II  MISS  FINCH.  421 

pent  his  wickedness  to  the  Inst  day  of  his  life.  Are  expos- 
ure arid  defeat  not  punishment  enough  for  such  a  man  as 
Nugent  ?"  I  stopped  and  waited  for  his  answer. 

He  turned  his  face  away  from  me,  and  said  no  more  until 
we  arrived  at  the  station.  There  lie  drew  me  aside  for  a 
moment  out  of  hearing  of  the  strangers  about  us. 

"  Why  should  I  take  you  away  from  your  father?"  he  ask- 
ed, abruptly.  "I  am  behaving  very  selfishly — and  I  only 
see  it  now." 

"Make  your  mind  easy,"  I  said.  "If  I  had  not  met  you 
to-day,  I  should  have  gone  to  England  to-morrow  for  Lucil- 
la's  sake. 

"But  now  you  have  met  me,"  he  persisted, "  why  shouldn't 
I  spare  you  the  journey?  I  could  write  and  tell  you  every 
thing,  without  putting  you  to  this  fatigue  and  expense." 

"If  you  say  a  word  more,"  I  answered,"!  shall  think  you 
have  some  reason  of  your  own  for  wishing  to  go  to  England 
by  yourself." 

He  cast  one  quick,  suspicious  look  at  me,  and  led  the  way 
back  to  the  booking-office  without  uttering  another  word. 
I  was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  him.  I  thought  his  conduct 
very  strange. 

In  silence  we  took  our  tickets;  in  silence  we  got  into  the 
railway  carriage.  I  attempted  to  say  something  encourag- 
ing when  we  started.  "Don't  notice  me,"  was  all  he  replied. 
"You  will  be  doing  me  a  kindness  if  you  will  let  me  bear  it 
by  myself."  In  my  former  experience  of  him  lie  had  talked 
his  way  out  of  all  his  other  troubles — he  had  clamorously 
demanded  the  expression  of  my  sympathy  with  him.  In  this 
greatest  trouble  he  was  like  another  being;  I  hardly  knew 
him  again.  Were  the  hidden  reserves  in  his  nature  (stirred 
up  by  another  serious  call  on  them)  showing  themselves  once 
more  on  the  surface  as  they  had  shown  themselves  already 
on  the  fatal  first  day  when  Lucilla  tried  her  sight?  In  that 
way  I  accounted  for  the  mere  superficial  change  in  him  at 
the  time.  What  was  actually  going  on  below  the  surface  it 
defied  my  ingenuity  even  to  guess.  Perhaps  I  shall  best  de- 
scribe the  sort  of  vague  apprehension  which  he  aroused  in 
me — after  what  had  passed  between  us  at  the  station — by 
saying  that  I  would  not  for  worlds  have  allowed  him  to  go 
to  England  by  himself. 


422  POOR    MISS    PINCH. 

Left  as  I  now  was  to  my  own  resources,  I  occupied  the  first 
hours  of  the  journey  in  considering  what  course  it  would  be 
safest  and  best  for  us  to  take  on  reaching  England. 

I  decided,  in  the  first  place,  that  we  ought  to  go  straight 
to  Dimchurch.  If  any  tidings  had  been  obtained  of  Lucilla, 
they  would  be  sure  to  have  received  them  at  the  rectory. 
Our  route,  after  reaching  Paris,  must  be,  therefore,  by  way 
of  Dieppe ;  thence  across  the  channel  to  Newhaven,  near 
Brighton,  and  so  to  Dimchurch. 

In  the  second  place — assuming  it  to  be  always  possible  that 
we  might  see  Lucilla  at  the  rectory — the  risk  of  abruptly 
presenting  Oscar  to  her  in  his  own  proper  person  might,  for 
all  1  knew  to.  the  contrary,  be  a  very  serious  one.  It  would 
relieve  us,  as  I  thought,  of  a  grave  responsibility,  if  we  warned 
Grosse  of  our  arrival,  and  so  enabled  him  to  be  present,  if  he 
thought  it  necessary,  in  the  interest  of  Lucilla's  health.  I 
put  this  view  (as  also  my  plan  for  returning  by  way  of 
Dieppe)  to  Oscar.  He  briefly  consented  to  every  thing — 
he  ungraciously  left  it  all  to  me. 

Accordingly,  on  our  arrival  at  Lyons,  having  some  time 
for  refreshment  at  our  disposal  before  we  went  on,  I  tele- 
graphed to  Mr.  Finch  at  the  rectory,  and  to  Grosse  in  Lon- 
don, informing  them  (as  well  as  I  could  calculate  it)  that,  if 
we  were  lucky  in  catching  trains  and  steam-boats, Oscar  and 
I  might  be  at  Dimchurch  in  good  time  on  the  next  night — 
that  is  to  say,  on  the  night  of  the  eighteenth.  In  any  case, 
they  were  to  expect  us  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 

These  difficulties  disposed  of,  and  a  little  store  of  refresh- 
ment for  the  night  packed  in  my  basket,  we  re-entered  the 
train  for  our  Long  journey  to  Paris. 

Among  the  new  passengers  who  joined  us  at  Lyons  was 
a  gentleman  whose  face  was  English,  and  whose  dress  was 
the  dress  of  a  clergyman.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
hailed  the  appearance  of  a  priest  with  a  feeling  of  relief.  The 
reason  was  this.  From  the  moment  when  I  had  read  Mrs. 
Finch's  letter  until  now  a  horrid  doubt,  which  a  priest  was 
just  the  man  to  solve,  had  laid  its  leaden  weight  on  my  mind 
— and,  I  firmly  believe,  on  Oscar's  mind  as  well.  Had  time 
enough  passed  since  Lucilla  had  left  Ramsgate  to  allow  of 
Nugent's  marrying  her  under  his  brother's  name? 

As  the  train  rolled  out  of  the  station,  I,  the  enemy  of 


POOR  MISS    FINCH.  423 

priests,  began  to  make  myself  agreeable  to  this  priest.  He 
was  young  and  shy,  but  I  conquered  him.  Just  as  the  other 
travelers  were  beginning  (with  the  exception  of  Oscar)  to 
compose  themselves  to  sleep,  I  put  rny  case  to  the  clergy- 
man. "A  and  B,  Sir,  lady  and  gentleman,  both  of  age,  leave 
one  town  in  England,  and  go  to  another  town,  on  the  fifth 
of  this  month — how  soon,  if  you  please,  can  they  be  lawfully 
married  after  that  ?" 

'•'  I  presume  you  mean  in  church  ?"  said  the  young  clergy- 
man. 

"  In  church,  of  course."  (To  that  extent  I  believed  I  might 
answer  for  Lucilla  without  any  fear  of  making  a  mistake.) 

"  They  may  be  married  by  License,"  said  the  clergyman — 
"providing  one  of  them  continues  to  reside  in  that  other 
town  to  which  they  traveled  on  the  fifth — on  the  twenty- 
first,  or  (possibly)  even  the  twentieth  of  this  month." 

"  Not  before  ?" 

"Certainly  not  before." 

It  was  then  the  night  of  the  seventeenth.  I  gave  my 
companion's  hand  a  little  squeeze  in  the  dark.  Here  was  a 
glimpse  of  encouragement  to  cheer  us  on  the  journey.  Be- 
fore the  marriage  could  take  place  we  should  be  in  England. 
"  We  have  time  before  us,"  I  whispered  to  Oscar.  "  We  will 
save  Lucilla  yet." 

"Shall  Ave  find  Lucilla?"  was  all  he  whispered  back. 

I  had  forgotten  that  serious  difficulty.  No  answer  to  Os- 
car's question  could  possibly  present  itself  until  we  reached 
the  rectory.  Between  this  and  then,  there  was  nothing  for 
it  but  to  keep  patience  and  to  keep  hope. 

I  refrain  from  encumbering  this  part  of  my  narrative  with 
any  detailed  account  of  the  little  accidents,  lucky  and  un- 
lucky, which  alternately  hastened  or  retarded  our  journey 
home.  Let  me  only  say  that  before  midnight  on  the  eight- 
eenth Oscar  and  I  drove  up  to  the  rectory  gate. 

Mr.  Finch  himself  came  out  to  receive  us,  with  a  lamp  in 
his  hand.  lie  lifted  his  eyes  (and  his  lamp)  devotionally  to 
the  sky  when  he  saw  Oscar.  The  two  first  words  he  said 
were, 

"  Inscrutable  Providence!" 

"Have  you  found  Lncilla?"  I  asked. 

Mr.  Finch — with  his  whole  attention  fixed  on  Oscar — wrun<z 


424  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

my  hand  mechanically,  and  said  I  was  a  "  good  creature," 
much  as  he  might  have  patted  and  spoken  to  Oscar's  com- 
panion, if  that  companion  had  been  a  dog.  I  almost  wished 
myself  that  animal  for  the  moment — I  should  have  had  the 
privilege  of  biting  Mr.  Finch.  Oscar  impatiently  repeated 
my  question ;  the  rector  at  the  time  officiously  assisting  him 
to  descend  from  the  carriage,  and  leaving  me  ta  get  out  as 
I  could. 

"  Did  you  hear  Madame  Pratolungo  ?"  Oscar  asked.  "  Is 
Lucilla  found  ?" 

"  Dear  Oscar,  we  hope  to  find  her,  now  you  have  come." 

That  answer  revealed  to  me  the  secret  of  Mr.  Finch's  ex- 
traordinary politeness  to  his  young  friend.  The  last  chance, 
as  things  were,  of  preventing  Lucilla's  marriage  to  a  man 
who  had  squandered  away  every  farthing  of  his  money  was 
the  chance  of  Oscar's  arrival  in  England  before  the  ceremony 
could  take  place.  The  measure  of  Oscar's  importance  to  Mr. 
Finch  was  now,  more  literally  than  ever,  the  measure  of  Os- 
car's fortune. 

I  asked  for  news  of  Grosse  as  we  went  in.  The  rector  act- 
ually found  some  comparatively  high  notes  in  his  prodigious 
voice  to  express  his  amazement  at  my  audacity  in  speaking 
to  him  of  any  body  but  Oscar. 

"  Oh  dear,  dear  me  !"  cried  Mr.  Finch,  impatiently  conced- 
ing to  me  one  precious  moment  of  his  attention.  "  Don't 
bother  about  Grosse !  Grosse  is  ill  in  London.  There  is  a 
note  for  you  from  Grosse. — Take  care  of  the  door-step,  dear 
Oscar,"  he  went  on,  in  his  deepest  and  gravest  .bass  notes. 
"  Mrs.  Finch  is  so  anxious  to  see  you.  We  have  both  looked 
forward  to  your  arrival  with  such  eager  hope — such  impa- 
tient affection,  so  to  speak.  Let  me  put  down  your  hat.  Ah  ! 
how  you  must  have  suffered  !  Share  my  trust  in  an  all-wise 
Providence,  and  meet  this  trial  with  cheerful  submission  as  I 
do.  All  is  not  lost  yet.  Bear  up!  bear  up!"  He  threw 
open  the  parlor  door.  "Mrs.  Finch  !  compose  yourself.  Our 
dear  adopted  son  !  Our  afflicted  Oscar !" 

Is  it  necessary  to  say  what  Mrs.  Finch  was  about,  and  how 
Mrs.  Finch  looked  ? 

There  were  the  three  unchangeable  institutions — the  novel, 
the  baby,  and  the  lost  pocket-handkerchief!  There  was  the 
gaudy  jacket  over  the  long  trailing  dressing-gown — and  the 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  425 

(.lamp  lady  inside  them,  damp  as  ever!  Receiving  Oscar 
with  a  mouth  drawn  down  at  the  corners,  and  a  head  that 
shook  sadly  in  sympathy  with  him,  Mrs.  Finch's  face  under- 
went a  most  extraordinary  transformation  when  she  turned 
my  way  next.  To  my  astonishment,  her  dim  eyes  actually 
sparkled  ;  a  broad  smile  of  irrepressible  contentment  showed 
itself  cunningly  to  wte,  in  place  of  the  dismal  expression  which 
had  welcomed  Oscar.  Holding  up  the  baby  in  triumph,  the 
lady  of  the  rectory  whispered  these  words  in  my  ear, 

"What  do  you  think  he  has  done  since  you  have  been 
away  ?" 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  I  answered. 

"  He  has  cut  two  teeth  !     Put  your  finger  in  and  feel." 

Others  might  bewail  the  family  misfortune.  The  family 
triumph  filled  the  secret  mind  of  Mrs.  Finch,  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  every  other  earthly  consideration.  I  put  my  finger 
in  as  instructed,  and  got  instantly  bitten  by  the  ferocious 
baby.  But  for  a  new  outburst  of  the  rector's  voice  at  the 
moment,  Mrs.  Finch  (if  lam  any  judge  of  physiognomy)  must 
have  certainly  relieved  herself  by  a  scream  of  delight.  As 
it  was  she  opened  her  mouth  ;  and  (having  lost  her  handker- 
chief, as  already  stated)  retired  into  a  corner,  and  gagged 
herself  with  the  baby. 

In  the  mean  time  Mr. Finch  had  produced  from  a  cupboard 
near  the  fire-place  two  letters.  The  first  he  threw  down  im- 
patiently on  the  table.  "  Oh  dear,  dear !  what  a  nuisance 
other  people's  letters  are  !"  The  second  he  handled  with  ex- 
traordinary care,  offering  it  to  Oscar  with  a  heavy  sigh,  and 
with  eyes  that  turned  up  martyr-like  to  the  ceiling.  "House 
yourself  and  read  it,"  said  Mr.  Finch,  in  his  most  pathetic 
pulpit  tones.  "  I  would  have  spared  you,  Oscar,  if  I  could. 
All  our  hopes  depend,  dear  boy,  on  what  you  can  say  to  guide 
us  when  you  have  read  those  lines." 

Oscar  took  the  inclosure  out  of  the  envelope — ran  over  the 
first  words — glanced  at  the  signature — and,  with  a  look  of 
mingled  rage  and  horror,  threw  the  letter  on  the  floor. 

"Don't  ask  me  to  read  it!"  lie  cried,  in  the  first  burst  of 
passion  which  had  escaped  him  yet.  "  If  I  read  it,  I  shall 
kill  him  when  we  meet."  He  dropped  into  a  chair  and  hid 
his  face  in  his  hands.  "  Oh,  Nugent !  Nugent !  Nugent !"  he 
moaned  to  himself  with  a  crv  that  was  dreadful  to  hear. 


426  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

It  was  no  time  for  standing  on  ceremony.  I  picked  up  the 
letter  and  looked  at  it  without  asking  leave.  It  proved  to 
be  the  letter  from  Nugent  (already  inserted  at  the  close  of 
Lucilla's  Journal)  informing  Miss  Batchford  of  her  niece's 
flight  from  Ramsgate,  and  signed  in  Oscar's  name.  The  only 
words  which  it  is  necessary  to  repeat  here  are  these:  "She 
accompanies  me,  at  my  express  request,  to  the  house  of  a 
married  lady  who  is  a  relative  of  mine,  and  under  whose  care 
she  will  remain  until  the  time  arrives  for  our  marriage." 

Those  lines  instantly  lightened  my  heart  of  the  burden  that 
had  oppressed  it  on  the  journey.  Nugent's  married  relative 
was  Oscar's  married  relative  too.  Oscar  had  only  to  tell  us 
where  the  lady  lived — and  Lucilla  would  be  found. 

I  stopped  Mr.  Finch  in  the  act  of  maddening  Oscar  by  ad- 
ministering pastoral  consolation  to  him. 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  I  said,  showing  him  the  letter.  "I  know 
what  you  want." 

The  rector  stared  at  me  indignantly.  I  turned  to  Mrs. 
Finch. 

"  We  have  had  a  weary  journey,"  I  went  on.  "  Oscar  is 
not  so  well  used  to  traveling  as  I  am.  Where  is  his  room  ?" 

Mrs.  Finch  rose  to  show  the  way.  Her  husband  opened 
his  lips  to  interfere. 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  I  repeated.  "I  understand  him,  and 
you  don't." 

For  once  in  his  life  the  Pope  of  Dirnchurch  was  reduced  to 
silence.  His  amazement  at  my  audacity  defied  even  his  pow- 
ers of  expression.  I  took  Oscar's  arm,  and  said,  "  You  are 
worn  out.  Go  to  your  room.  I  will  make  you  something 
warm  and  bring  it  up  to  you  myself  in  a  few  minutes."  He 
neither  looked  at  me  nor  answered  me — he  yielded  silently, 
and  followed  Mrs.  Finch.  I  took  from  the  sideboard — on 
which  supper  was  waiting — the  materials  I  wanted,  set  the 
kettle  boiling,  made  my  renovating  mixture,  and  advanced 
to  the  door  with  it — followed  from  first  to  last,  move  where 
I  might,  by  the  staring  and  scandalized  eyes  of  Mr.  Finch. 
The  moment  in  which  I  opened  the  door  was  also  the  mo- 
ment in  which  the  rector  recovered  himself.  "  Permit  me  to 
inquire,  Madame  Pratolungo,"  he  said,  with  his  loftiest  em- 
phasis, "in  what  capacity  are  You  here?" 

"In  the  capacity  of  Oscar's  friend,"  I  answered.     "You 


POOU    MISS    FINCH.  427 

will  get  rid  of  us  both  to-morrow."  I  banged  the  door  be- 
hind me,  and  went  up  stairs.  If  I  had  been  Mr.  Finch's  wife, 
I  believe  I  should  have  ended  in  making  quite  an  agreeable 
man  of  him. 

Mrs.  Finch  met  me  in  the  passage  on  the  first  floor,  and 
pointed  out  Oscar's  room.  I  found  him  walking  backward 
and  forward  restlessly.  The  first  words  he  said  alluded  to 
his  brother's  letter.  I  had  arranged  not  to  disturb  him  by 
any  reference  to  that  painful  matter  until  the  next  morning, 
and  I  tried  to  change  the  topic.  It  was  useless.  There  was 
an  anxiety  in  his  mind  which  was  not  to  be  dismissed  at  will. 
He  insisted  on  my  instantly  setting  that  anxiety  at  rest. 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  the  letter,"  he  said.  "  I  only  want  to 
know  all  that  it  says  about  Lucilla." 

"All  that  it  says  may  be  summed  up  in  this.  Lucilla  is 
perfectly  safe." 

lie  caught  me  by  the  arm,  and  looked  me  searchingly  in 
the  face. 

"  Where  ?"  he  asked.     "  With  him  ?" 
With  a  married  lady  who  is  a  relative  of  his." 

He  dropped  my  arm,  and  considered  for  a  monient. 

"My  cousin  at  Sydenham  !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Do  you  know  the  house  ?" 

"Perfectly  well." 

"We  will  go  there  to-morrow.  Let  that  content  you  for 
to-night.  Get  to  rest." 

I  gave  him  my  hand.  lie  took  it  mechanically — absorbed 
in  his  own  thoughts. 

"Didn't  I  say  something  foolish  down  stairs?"  he  asked, 
putting  the  question  suddenly,  with  an  odd,  suspicious  look 
at  me. 

"You  were  quite  worn  out,"  I  said,  consolingly.  "No- 
body noticed  it." 

"  You  are  sure  of  that  ?" 

"Quite  sure.     Good-night." 

I  left  the  room,  feeling  much  as  I  had  felt  at  the  station  at 
Marseilles.  I  was  not  satisfied  with  him.  I  thought  his  con- 
duct very  strange. 

On  returning  to  the  parlor  I  found  nobody  there  but  Mrs. 
Finch.  The  rector's  offended  dignity  had  left  the  rector  no 


428  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

honorable  alternative  but  to  withdraw  to  his  own  room.  I 
ate  my  supper  in  peace;  and  Mrs. Finch  (rocking  the  cradle 
with  her  foot)  chattered  away  to  her  heart's  content  about 
all  that  had  happened  in  my  absence. 

I  gathered,  here  and  there,  from  what  she  said,  some  par- 
ticulars worth  mentioning. 

The  new  disagreement  between  Mr.  Finch  and  Miss  Batch- 
ford,  which  had  driven  the  old  lady  out  of  the  rectory  al- 
most as  soon  as  she  set  foot  in  it,  had  originated  in  Mr. 
Finch's  exasperating  composure  when  he  heard  of  his  daugh- 
ter's flight.  He  supposed,  of  course,  that  Lucilla  had  left 
Ramsgate  with  Oscar — whose  signed  settlements  on  his  fut- 

O  O 

lire  wife  were  safe  in  Mr.  Finch's  possession.  It  was  only 
when  Miss  Batchford  had  communicated  with  Grosse,  and 
when  the  discovery  followed  which  revealed  the  penniless 
Nugent  as  the  man  who  had  eloped  with  Lucilla,  that  Mr. 
Finch's  parental  anxiety  (seeing  no  money  likely  to  come  of 
it)  became  roused  to  action.  He,  Miss  Batchford,  and  Grosse 
had  all,  in  their  various  ways,  done  their  best  to  trace  the 
fugitives,  and  had  all  alike  been  baffled  by  the  impossibility 
of  discovering  the  residence  of  the  lady  mentioned  in  Nu- 
gent's  letter.  My  telegram,  announcing  my  return  to  En- 
gland with  Oscar,  had  inspired  them  with  their  first  hope  of 
being  able  to  interfere,  and  stop  the  marriage  before  it  was 
too  late. 

The  occurrence  of  Grosse's  name  in  Mrs.  Finch's  rambling 
narrative  recalled  to  my  memory  what  the  rector  had  told 
me  at  the  garden  gate.  I  had  not  yet  received  the  letter 
which  the  German  had  sent  to  wait  my  arrival  at  Dimchurch. 
After  a  short  search  we  found  it — where  it  had  been  con- 
temptuously thrown  by  Mi1.  Finch — on  the  parlor  table1. 

A  few  lines  comprised  the  whole  letter.  Grosse  informed 
me  that  he  had  so  fretted  himself  about  Lucilla  that  he  had 
been  attacked  by  "a  visitation  of  gouts."  It  was  impossible 
lo  move  his  "foots"  without  instantly  plunging  into  the 
torture  of  the  infernal  regions.  "  If  it  is  you,  my  goot  dear, 
who  are  going  to  find  her,"  he  concluded,  "  come  to  me  first 
in  London.  I  have  something  most  dismal-serious  to  say  to 
you  about  our  poor  little  Feench's  eyes." 

Xo  words  can  tell  how  that  last  sentence  startled  and 
grieved  me.  Mrs.  Finch  increased  my  anxiety  and  alarm  by 


POOK    MISS    FIXCII.  429 

repeating  what  she  had  heard  Miss  Batchford  say,  during 
her  brief  visit  to  the  rectory,  on  the  subject  of  Lncilla's 
sight.  Grosse  had  been  seriously  dissatisfied  with  the  state 
of  his  patient's  eyes  when  lie  had  seen  them  as  long  ago  as 
the  fourth  of  the  month;  and  on  the  morning  of  the  next 
day  the  servant  had  reported  Lucilla  as  being  hardly  able 
to  distinguish  objects  in  the  view  from  the  window  of  her 
room.  Later  on  the  same  day  she  had  secretly  left  Rams- 
gate ;  and  Grosse's  letter  proved  that  she  had  not  been  near 
her  surgical  attendant  since. 

Weary  as  I  was  after  the  journey,  this  miserable  news 
kept  me  waking  long  after  I  had  gone  to  my  bed.  The  next 
morning  I  was  up  with  the  servants — impatient  to  start  for 
London  by  the  first  train. 


CHAPTER  THE  FORTY- EIGHTH. 

ON    THE    WAY    TO    THE    KN1X — SECOM)    STAGE. 

EAKLY  riser  as  I  was,  I  found  that  Oscar  had  risen  earlier 
still.  He  had  left  the  rectory,  and  had  disturbed  Mr.  Gooth- 
c-ridge's  morning  slumbers  by  an  application  at  the  inn  for 
the  key  of  Browndown. 

On  his  return  to  the  rectory  he  merely  said  that  lie  had 
been  to  see  after  various  things  belonging  to  him  which  were 
still  left  in  the  empty  house.  His  look  and  manner  as  he 
gave  us  this  brief  explanation  were,  to  my  mind,  more  un- 
satisfactory than  ever.  I  made  no  remark:  and,  observing 

*.  ^ 

that  his  loose  traveling  coat  was  buttoned  awry  over  the 
breast,  I  set  it  right  for  him.  My  hand,  as  I  did  this,  touched 
his  breast  pocket.  lie  started  back  directly,  as  if  there  was 
something  in  the  pocket  which  he  did  not  wish  me  to  feel. 
Was  it  something  he  had  brought  from  Browndown  ? 

We  got  away — encumbered  by  Mr.  Finch,  who  insisted  on 
attaching  himself  to  Oscar — by  the  first  express  train,  which 
took  us  straight  to  London.  Comparison  of  time-tables,  on 
reaching  the  terminus,  showed  that  I  had  leisure  to  spare  for 
a  brief  visit  to  Grosse  before  we  again  took  the  railway  back 
to  Sydenham.  Having  decided  not  to  mention  the  bad  news 
about  Lucilla's  eyes  to  Oscar  until  I  had  seen  the  German 
first,  I  made  the  best  excuse  that  suggested  itself,  and  drove 


430  POOR    MISS   FINCH. 

away,  leaving  the  two  gentlemen  in  the  waiting-room  at  the 
station. 

I  found  Grosse  confined  to  his  easy-chair,  with  his  gouty 
foot  enveloped  in  cool  cabbage  leaves.  Between  pain  and 
anxiety,  his  eyes  were  wilder,  his  broken  English  was  more 
grotesque,  than  ever.  When  I  appeared  at  the  door  of  his 
room  and  said  good-morning — in  the  frenzy  of  his  impatience 
he  shook  his  fist  at  me. 

"Good-morning  go-damn!"  he  roared  out.  "Where? 
where?  where  is  Feench  ?" 

I  told  him  where  we  believed  Lucilla  to  be.  Grosse  turned 
his  head,  and  shook  his  fist  at  a  bottle  on  the  chimney-piece 
next. 

"Get  that  bottles  on  the  chimney,"  he  said.  "And  the 
eye-baths  by  the  side  of  him.  Don't  stop  with  your  talky- 
talky-chatterations  here.  Go!  Save  her  eyes!  Look!  You 
do  this.  You  throw  her  head  back  —  soh  !"  He  illustra- 
ted the  position  so  forcibly  with  his  own  head  that  he  shook 
his  gouty  foot,  and  screamed  with  the  pain  of  it.  He  went 
on  nevertheless,  glaring  frightfully  through  his  spectacles, 
gnashing  his  mustache  fiercely  between  his  teeth.  "Throw 
her  head  back.  Fill  the  eye-baths;  turn  him  upsides-down 
over  her  open  eyes.  Drown  them  turn-turn-about  in  my 
mixtures.  Drown  them,  I  say,  one-down-todder-come-on,  and 
if  she  screech  never  mind  it.  Then  bring  her  to  me.  For 
the  lofe  of  Gott,  bring  her  to  me.  If  you  tie  her  hands  and 
foots,  bring  her  to  me.  What  is  the  womans  stopping  for? 
Go  !  go !  go !" 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question  about  Oscar,"  I  said,  "  be- 
fore I  go." 

He  seized  the  pillow  which  supported  his  head — evidently 
intending  to  expedite  my  departure  by  throwing  it  at  me.  I 
produced  the  railway  time-table  as  the  best  defensive  weap- 
on at  my  command.  "Look  at  it  for  yourself,"  I  said,  "and 
you  will  see  that  I  must  wait  at  the  station,  if  I  don't  wait 
here." 

With  some  difficulty  I  satisfied  him  that  it  was  impossible 
to  leave  London  for  Sydenham  before  a  certain  hour,  and 
that  I  had  at  least  ten  minutes  to  spare,  which  might  be  just 
as  well  passed  in  consulting  him.  lie  closed  his  glaring  eyes, 
and  laid  his  head  back  on  the  chair,  thoroughly  exhausted 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  431 

with  his  own  outbreak  of  excitement.  "No  matter  how 
things  goes,"  he  said,  "a  wornans  must  wag  her  tongue. 
Goot.  Wag  yours." 

"I  am  placed  in  a  very  difficult  position,"  I  began.  "Os- 
car is  going  with  me  to  Lucilla.  I  shall,  of  course,  take  care, 
in  the  first  place,  that  lie  and  Nugent  do  not  meet,  unless  I 
am  present  at  the  interview.  But  I  am  not  equally  sure  of 
what  I  ought  to  do  in  the  case  of  Lucilla.  Must  I  keep  them 
apart  until  I  have  first  prepared  her  to  see  Oscar?" 

"  Let  her  see  the  devil  himself  if  you  like,"  growled  Grosse, 
"so  long  as  you  bring  her  here  afterwards-directly  to  me. 
You  will  do  the  bettermost  thing  if  you  prepare  Oscar.  She 
wants  no  preparations !  She  is  enough  disappointed  in  him 
as  it  is !" 

"Disappointed  in  him?"  I  repeated.  "I  don't  understand 
you." 

He  settled  himself  wearily  in  his  chair,  and  referred,  in  a 
softened  and  saddened  tone,  to  that  private  conversation  of 
his  with  Lucilla,  at  Kamsgate,  which  lias  already  been  re- 
ported in  the  Journal.  I  was  now  informed,  for  the  first  time, 
of  those  changes  in  her  sensations  and  in  her  ways  of  think- 
ing which  had  so  keenly  vexed  and  mortified  her.  I  heard 
of  the  ominous  absence  of  the  old  thrill  of  pleasure  when 
Nugent  took  her  hand  on  meeting  her  at  the  sea-side  —  I 
heard  how  bitterly  his  personal  appearance  had  disappointed 
her  (when  she  had  seen  his  features  in  detail)  by  comparison 
with  the  charming  ideal  picture  which  she  had  formed  of  her 
lover  in  the  days  of  her  blindness:  those  happier  days',  as 
she  had  called  them,  when  she  was  Poor  Miss  Finch. 

"Surely,"!  said,  "all  the  old  feelings  will  come  back  to  her 
when  she  sees  Oscar?" 

"They  will  never  come  back  to  her  —  no,  not  if  she  sees 
fifty  Oscars !" 

lie  was  beginning  to  frighten  me,  or  to  irritate  me — I  can 
hardly  say  which.  I  only  know  that  I  persisted  in  disputing 
with  him.  "When  she  sees  the  true  man,"  I  went  on,  "do 
you  mean  to  say  she  will  feel  the  same  disappointment — 

I  could  get  no  farther  than  that.  lie  cut  me  short  there, 
without  ceremony. 

"You  foolish  womans!"  he  interposed,  "she  will  feel  more 
than  the  same.  I  have  told  von  already  it  was  one  enormous 


432  POOli    HISS    FINCH. 

disappointments  to  her  when  she  saw  the  handsome  brodrter 
with  the  fair  complexions.  Ask  your  own  self  what  will  it 
be  when  she  sees  the  ugly  brodder  with  the  blue  face.  I  teii 
you  this ! — she  will  think  your  true  man  the  worst  impostor 
of  the  two." 

There  I  indignantly  contradicted  him. 

"•  His  face  may  be  a  disappointment  to  her,"  I  said ;  "  I  own 
that.  But  there  it  will  end.  Her  hand  will  tell  her,  when 
he  takes  it,  that  there  is  no  impostor  deceiving  her  this  time." 

"  Her  hand  will  tell  ner  nothing — no  more  than  yours.  I 
had  not  so  much  hard  hearts  in  me  as  to  say  that  to  her  when 
she  asked  me.  I  say  it  to  you.  Hold  your  tongue  and  listen. 
All  those  thrill-tingles  that  she  once  had  when  he  touched 
her  belong  to  anodder  time  —  the  time  gone -by,  when  her 
sight  was  in  her  fingers  and  not  in  her  eyes.  With  those 
fine -superfine -feelings  of  the  days  when  she  was  blind  she 
pays  now  for  her  grand  new  privilege  of  opening  her  eyes  on 
the  world.  (And  worth  the  price  too !)  Do  you  understand 
yet?  It  is  a  sort  of  swop-bargain  between  Nature  and  this 
poor  girls  of  ours.  I  take  away  your  eyes — I  give  you  your 
fine  touch.  I  give  you  your  eyes — I  take  away  your  fine 
touch.  Soh  !  that  is  plain.  You  see  now  ?" 

I  was  too  mortified  and  too  miserable  to  answer  him. 
Through  all  our  later  troubles  I  had  looked  forward  so  confi- 
dently to  Oscar's  re-appearance  as  tlve  one  sufficient  condi- 
tion on  which  Lucilla's  happiness  would  be  certainly  restored! 
What  had  become  of  my  anticipations  now  ?  I  sat  silent,  star- 
ing in  stupid  depression  at  the  pattern  of  the  carpet.  Grosse 
took  out  his  watch. 

"Your  ten-minutes-time  has  counted  himself  out,"  lie  said. 

I  neither  moved  nor  heeded  him.  His  ferocious  eyes  be- 
gan to  flame  again  behind  his  monstrous  spectacles. 

"  Go-be-off-with-you !"  he  shouted  at  me  as  if  I  was  deaf. 
"  Her  eyes !  her  eyes  !  While  you  stop  chatterboxing  here, 
her  eyes  are  in  danger.  What  with  her  frettings  and  her 
cryings  and  her  damn-nonsense-lofe-business,  I  swear  you  my 
solemn  oath  her  sight  was  in  danger  when  I  saw  her  a  whole- 
fortnight  gone-by.  Do  you  want  my  big  pillow  to  fly  bang 
at  your  head  ?  You  don't  want  him  ?  Be-off -a  way  with  you, 
then,  or  you  will  have  him  in  one-two-three  time  !  Be-off- 
away — and  bring  her  back  to  me  before  night !" 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  433 

I  returned  to  the  railway.  Of  all  the  women  whom  I  pass- 
ed in  the  crowded  streets,  I  doubt  if  one  had  a  heavier  heart 
in  her  bosom  that  morning  than  mine. 

To  make  matters  worse  still,  my  traveling  companions 
(one  in  the  refreshment-room,  and  one  pacing  the  platform) 
received  my  account  of  my  interview  with  Grosse  in  a  man- 
ner which  seriously  disappointed  and  discouraged  me.  Mr. 
Finch's  inhuman  conceit  treated  my  melancholy  news  of  his 
daughter  as  a  species  of  complimentary  tribute  to  his  own 
foresight.  "  You  remember,  Madame  Pratolungo,  I  took  high 
ground  in  this  matter  from  the  first.  I  protested  against  tho 
proceedings  of  the  man  Grosse  as  involving  a  purely  worldly 
interference  with  the  ways  of  an  inscrutable  Providence. 
With  what  effect?  My  paternal  influence  was  repudiated; 
my  Moral  Weight  was,  so  to  speak,  set  aside.  And  now  you 
see  the  result.  Take  it  to  heart,  dear  friend.  May  it  be  a, 
warning  to  you !"  He  sighed  with  ponderous  complacency, 
and  turned  from  me  to  the  girl  behind  the  counter.  "  I  will 
take  another  cup  of  tea." 

Oscar's  reception  of  me,  when  I  found  him  on  the  platform, 
and  told  him  next  of  Lucilla's  critical  state,  was  more  than  dis- 
couraging. It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  he  alarmed  me. 

"  Another  item  in  the  debt  I  owe  to  Nugent !"  he  said. 
Not  a  word  of  sympathy,  not  a  word  of  sorrow.  That  vin- 
dictive answer,  and  nothing  more. 

We  started  for  Sydenham. 

From  time  to  time  I  looked  at  Oscar  sitting  opposite  to 
me,  to  see  if  any  change  appeared  in  him  as  we  drew  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  place  in  which  Lucilla  was  now  living. 
No !  Still  the  same  ominous  silence,  the  same  unnatural  self- 
repression  possessed  him.  Except  the  momentary  outbreak 
when  Mr.  Finch  had  placed  Xugent's  letter  in  his  hand  on  the 
previous  evening,  not  the  faintest  token  of  what  was  really 
going  on  in  his  mind  had  escaped  him  since  we  had  left  Mar- 
seilles. He,  who  could  weep  over  all  his  other  griefs  as  eas- 
ily and  as  spontaneously  as  a  woman,  had  not  shed  a  tear 
since  the  fatal  day  when  he  had  discovered  that  his  brother 
had  played  him  false — that  brother  who  had  been  the  god  of 
his  idolatry,  the  sacred  object  of  his  gratitude  and  love ! 
When  a  man  of  Oscar's  temperament  becomes  fro/.cn  up  for 
days  together  in  his  own  thoughts — when  he  keeps  his  own 

T 


434  POOE   MISS    FINCH. 

counsel — when  he  asks  for  no  sympathy,  and  utters  no  com- 
plaint— the  sign  is  a  serious  one.  There  are  hidden  forces 
gathering  in  him  which  will  burst  their  way  to  the  surface — 
for  good  or  for  evil — with  an  irresistible  result.  Watching 
Oscar  attentively  behind  my  veil,  I  felt  the  certain  assurance 
that  the  part  he  would  take  in  the  terrible  conflict  of  interests 
now  awaiting  us  would  be  a  part  which  I  should  remember 
to  the  latest  day  of  my  life. 

We  reached  Sydenham,  and  went  to  the  nearest  hotel. 

On  the  railway — with  other  travelers  in  the  carriage — it 
had  been  impossible  to  consult  on  the  safest  method  of  ap- 
proaching Lucilla  in  the  first  instance.  That  serious  question 
now  pressed  for  instant  decision.  We  sat  down  to  consult 
on  it  in  the  room  which  we  had  hired  at  the  hotel. 


CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-NINTH. 

ON   THE    WAY   TO    THE    END. THIRD    STAGE. 

ON  former  occasions  of  doubt  or  difficulty  it  had  always 
been  Oscar's  habit  to  follow  the  opinions  of  others.  On  this 
occasion  he  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  to  assert  an  opinion 
of  his  own. 

"It  seems  needless  to  waste  time  in  discussing  our  different 
views,"  he  said.  "  There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  I  am 
the  person  principally  concerned  in  this  matter.  Wait  here, 
while  I  go  to  the  house." 

He  spoke  without  any  of  his  usual  hesitation,  and  took  up 
his  hat  without  looking  either  at  Mr.  Finch  or  at  me.  I  felt 
more  and  more  convinced  that  the  influence  which  Xugent's 
vile  breach  of  confidence  had  exerted  over  Oscar's  mind  was 
an  influence  which  had  made  a  dangerous  man  of  him.  Re- 
solved to  prevent  him  from  leaving  us,  I  insisted  on  his  re- 
turning to  his  chair,  and  hearing  what  I  had  to  say.  At  the 
same  moment  Mr.  Finch  rose,  and  placed  himself  between 
Os<jar  and  the  door.  Seeing  this,  I  thought  it  might  be  wise 
if  I  kept  my  interference  in  reserve,  and  allowed  the  rector 
to  speak  first. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Oscar,"  said  Mr.  Finch,  gravely.  "  You 
are  forgetting  Me." 

Oscar  waited  doggedly,  hat  in  hand. 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  435 

Mr.  Finch  paused,  evidently  considering  what  words  ho 
should  use  before  he  spoke  again.  His  respect  for  Oscar's 
pecuniary  position  was  great;  but  his  respect  for  himself — 
especially  at  the  present  crisis — was,  if  possible,  greater  still. 
In  deference  to  the  first  sentiment  he  was  as  polite,  and  in 
deference  to  the  second  he  was  as  positive,  in  phrasing  his 
remonstrance,  as  a  man  could  be. 

"  Permit  me  to  remind  you,  dear  Oscar,  that  my  claim  to 
interfere,  as  Lucilla's  father,  is  at  least  equal  to  yours,"  pro- 
ceeded the  rector.  "  In  the  hour  of  my  daughter's  need,  it  is 
my  parental  duty  to  be  present.  If  you  go  to  your  cousin's 
house,  my  position  imperatively  requires  that  I  should  go 
too." 

Oscar's  reception  of  this  proposal  confirmed  the  grave  ap- 
prehensions with  which  he  had  inspired  me.  He  flatly  re- 
fused to  have  Mr. Finch  for  a  companion. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  answered,  shortly.  "I  wish  to  go  to  the 
house  alone." 

"Permit  me  to  ask  your  reason,"  said  the  rector,  still  pre- 
serving his  conciliatory  manner. 

"I  wish  to  see  my  brother  in  private,"  Oscar  replied,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

Mr.  Finch,  still  restraining  himself,  but  still  not  moving 
from  the  door,  looked  at  me.  I  hastened  to  interfere  before 
there  was  any  serious  disagreement  between  them. 

"  I  venture  to  think,"  I  said,  "  that  you  are  both  wrong. 
Whether  one  of  you  goes  or  both  of  you  go,  the  result  will 
be  the  same.  The  chances  are  a  hundred  to  one  against 
your  being  admitted  into  the  house." 

They  both  turned  on  me  together,  and  asked  what  I  meant. 

"  You  can't  force  your  way  in,"  I  said.  "  You  must  do  one 
of  two  things.  You  must  either  give  your  names  to  the 
servant  at  the  door,  or  you  must  withhold  your  names.  If 
yon  give  them,  you  Avarn  Nugent  of  what  is  coming — and  he 
is  not  the  man  to  let  you  into  the  house  under  those  circum- 
stances. If  you  take  the  other  way,  and  keep  your  names 
concealed,  you  present  yourselves  as  strangers.  Is  Nugent 
likely  to  be  accessible  to  strangers?  Would  Lucilla,  in  her 
present  position,  consent  to  receive  two  men  who  are  un- 
known to  her?  Take  my  word  for  it  —  you  will  not  only 
gain  nothing  if  you  go  to  the  house — you  will  actually  make 


436  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

it  more  difficult  to  communicate  with  Lucilla  than  it  is  al- 
ready." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Both  the  men.i'elt  that  my 
objections  were  not  easy  to  answer.  Once  more  Oscar  took 
the  lead. 

"  Do  you  propose  to  go  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Nox"  I  answered.  "  I  propose  to  send  a  letter  to  Lucilla. 
A  letter  will  find  its  way  to  her." 

This  again  was  unanswerable.  Oscar  inquired  next  what  the 
purport  of  the  letter  was  to  be.  I  replied  "  that  I  proposed  to 
ask  her  to  grant  me  a  private  interview — nothing  more." 

"Suppose  Lucilla  refuses?"  sajd  Mr.  Finch. 

"  She  will  not  refuse,"  I  rejoined.  "  There  was  a  little  mis- 
understanding between  us  —  I  admit  —  at  the  time  when  I 
went  abroad.  I  mean  to  refer  frankly  to  that  misunder- 
standing as  my  reason  for  writing.  I  shall  put  your  daugh- 
ter on  her  honor  to  give  me  an  opportunity  of  setting  things 
right  between  us.  If  I  summon  Lucilla  to  do  an  act  of  jus- 
tice, I  believe  she  will  not  refuse  me." 

(This,  let  me  add  in  parenthesis,  was  the  plan  of  action 
which  I  had  formed  on  the  way  to  Sydenham.  I  had  only 
waited  to  mention  it  until  I  had  heard  what  the  two  men 
proposed  to  do  first.) 

Oscar,  standing  hat  in  hand,  glanced  at  Mr.  Finch  (also  hat 
in  hand),  keeping  obstinately  near  the  door.  If  he  persisted 
in  carrying  out  his  purpose  of  going  alone  to  his  cousin's 
house,  the  rector's  face  and  manner  expressed,  with  the  po- 
litest plainness,  the  intention  of  following  him.  Oscar  was 
placed  between  a  clergyman  and  a  woman  both  equally  de- 
termined to  have  their  own  way.  Under  those  circum- 
stances, there  was  no  alternative — unless  he  wished  to  pro- 
duce a  public  scandal — but  to  yield,  or  appear  to  yield,  to 
one  or  the  other  of  us.  He  selected  me. 

"If  you  succeed  in  seeing  her,"  he  asked,  "what  do  you 
mean  to  do  ?" 

"  I  mean  either  to  bring  her  back  with  me  here  to  her  fa- 
ther and  to  you,  or  to  make  an  appointment  with  her  to  see 
you  both  where  she  is  now  living,"  I  replied. 

Oscar — after  another  look  at  the  immovable  rector — rang 
the  bell,  and  ordered  writing  materials. 

"One  more  question,"  he  said.     "Assuming  that  Lucilla 


POOR  MISS   FINCH.  437 

receives  you  at  the  house,  do  you  intend  to  see — "  He  stoA> 
ped ;  his  eyes  shrank  from  meeting  mine.  "  Do  you  intend 
to  see  any  body  else?"  he  resumed:  still  evading  the  plain 
utterance  of  his  brother's  name. 

."I  intend  to  see  nobody  but  Lucilla,"  I  said.  "It  is  no 
business  of  mine  to  interfere  between  you  and  your  brother." 
(Heaven  forgive  me  for  speaking  in  that  way  to  him,  while 
I  had  the  firm  resolution  to  interfere  between  them  in  my 
mind  all  the  time  !) 

"  Write  your  letter,"  he  said,  "  on  condition  that  I  see  the 
reply." 

"  It  is  needless,  I  presume,  for  me  to  make  the  same  stipu- 
lation ?"  added  the  rector.  "  In  my  parental  capacity— 

I  recognized  his  parental  capacity  before  he  could  say  any 
more.  "  You  shall  both  see  the  reply,"  I  said,  and  sat  down 
to  my  letter — writing  merely  what  I  had  told  them  I  should 
write:  "Dear  Lucilla,  I  have  just  returned  from  the  Conti- 
nent. For  the  sake  of  justice,  and  for  the  sake  of  old  times, 
let  me  see  you  immediately  —  without  mentioning  our  ap- 
pointment to  any  body.  I  pledge  myself  to  satisfy  you  in 
five  minutes  that  I  have  never  been  unworthy  of  your  affec- 
tion and  your  confidence.  The  bearer  waits  for  your  reply." 

I  handed  those  lines  to  the  two  gentlemen  to  read.  Mr. 
Finch  made  no  remark — he  was  palpably  dissatisfied  at  the 
secondary  position  which  he  occupied.  Oscar  said,  "I  see 
no  objection  to  the  letter.  I  will  do  nothing  until  I  have 
read  the  answer."  With  those  words,  he  dictated  to  me  his 
cousin's  address.  I  gave  the  letter  myself  to  one  of  the 
servants  at  the  hotel. 

"  Is  it  far  from  here?"  I  asked. 

"  Barely  ten  minutes'  walk,  ma'am." 

"You  understand  that  you  are  to  wait  for  an  answer?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

He  went  out.  As  well  as  I  can  remember,  an  interval  of 
at  least  half  an  hour  passed  before  his  return.  You  will 
form  some  idea  of  the  terrible  oppression  of  suspense  that 
now  laid  its  slowly  torturing  weight  on  all  three  of  us,  when 
I  tell  you  that  not  one  word  was  spoken  in  the  room  from 
the  time  when  the  servant  went  out  to  the  time  when  the 
servant  came  in  again. 

When  the  man  returned  he  had  a  letter  in  his  hand  ! 


438  POOfl   MISS    FINCH. 

My  fingers  shook  so  that  I  could  hardly  open  it.  Before 
I  had  read  a  word  the  sight  of  the  writing  struck  a  sudden 

o  o 

chill  through  me.  The  body  of  the  note  was  written  by  the 
hand  of  a  stranger !  And  the  signature  at  the  end  was 
traced  in  the  large,  straggling,  childish  characters  which  I 
remembered  so  well,  when  Lucilla  had  written  her  first  let- 
ter to  Oscar  in  the  days  when  she  was  blind  ! 

The  note  was  expressed  in  these  strange  words :  "  I  can 
not  receive  you  here ;  but  I  can,  and  will,  come  to  you  at 
your  hotel  if  you  will  wait  for  me.  I  am  not  able  to  ap- 
point a  time.  I  can  only  promise  to  watch  for  my  first  op- 
portunity, and  to  take  advantage  of  it  instantly — for  your 
sake  and  for  mine." 

But  one  interpretation  could  be  placed  on  such  language 
as  this.  Lucilla  was  not  a  free  agent.  Both  Oscar  and  the 
rector  were  now  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  my  view  of 
the  case  had  been  the  correct  one.  If  it  was  impossible  for 
me  to  be  received  into  the  house,  how  doubly  impossible 
would  it  be  for  the  men  to  gain  admission  !  Oscar,  after 
reading  the  note,  withdrew  to  the  fai'ther  end  of  the  room, 
keeping  his  thoughts  to  himself.  Mr.  Finch  decided  on  step- 
ping out  of  his  secondary  position  by  forthwith  taking  a 
course  of  his  own. 

"Am  I  to  infer,"  he  began,  "that  it  is  really  useless  for 
me  to  attempt  to  see  my  own  child  ?" 

"Her  letter  speaks  for  itself,"  I  replied.  "If  you  attempt 
to  see  her,  you  will  probably  be  the  means  of  preventing 
your  daughter  from  coming  here." 

"  In  my  parental  capacity,"  continued  Mr.  Finch,  "  it  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  remain  passive.  As  a  brother  clergyman, 
I  have,  I  conceive,  a  claim  on  the  rector  of  this  parish.  It  is 
quite  likely  that  notice  may  have  been  already  given  of  this 
fraudulent  marriage.  In  that  case,  it  is  not  only  my  duty 
to  myself  and  my  child — it  is  my  duty  to  the  Church,  to 
confer  with  my  reverend  colleague.  I  go  to  confer  with 
him."  He  strutted  to  the  door,  and  added,  "  If  Lucilla  ar- 
rives in  my  absence,  I  invest  you  with  my  authority,  Ma- 
dame Pratolungo,  to  detain  her  until  my  return."  With  that 
parting  charge  to  me,  he  walked  out. 

I  looked  at  Oscar.  He  came  slowly  toward  me  from  the 
Other  end  of  the  room. 


POOR   MISS    FINCH.  439 

"You  will  wait  here,  of  course?"  he  said. 

"Of  course.     And  you?" 

"I  shall  go  out  for  a  little  while." 

"For  any  particular  purpose?" 

"  No.    To  get  through  the  time.    I  am  weary  of  waiting.'' 

I  felt  positively  assured,  from  the  manner  in  which  he  an- 
swered me,  that  he  was  going — now  he  had  got  rid  of  Mr. 
Finch — straight  to  his  cousin's  house. 

"You  forget,"  I  said,  "that  Lucilla  may  come  here  while 
you  are  out.  Your  presence  in  the  room,  or  in  the  room 
next  to  this,  may  be  of  the  greatest  importance,  when  I  tell 
her  what  your  brother  has  done.  Suppose  she  refuses  to  be- 
lieve me  ?  What  am  I  to  do  if  I  have  not  got  you  to  ap- 
peal to?  In  your  own  interest,  as  well  as  in  Lucilla's,  I  re- 
quest you  to  remain  here  with  me  till  she  comes." 

Putting  it  on  that  ground  only,  I  waited  to  see  what  he 
would  do.  After  a  certain  hesitation,  he  answered,  with  a 
sullen  assumption  of  indifference,  "  Just  as  you  please !"  and 
walked  away  again  toward  the  other  end  of  the  room.  As 
he  turned  his  back  on  me  I  heard  him  say  to  himself,  "It's 
only  waiting  a  little  longer!" 

"  Waiting  for  what  ?"  I  asked. 

He  looked  round  at  me  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Patience  for  the  present !"  he  answered.  "  You  will  hear 
soon  enough."  For  the  moment  I  said  no  more  to  him. 
The  tone  in  which  he  had  replied  warned  me  that  it  would 
be  useless. 

After  an  interval — how  long  an  interval  I  can  not  well 
say — I  heard  the  sound  of  women's  dresses  in  the  passage 
outside. 

The  instant  after  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

I  signed  to  Oscar  to  open  a  second  door,  close  by  him  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  room,  and  (for  the  moment  at  least)  to 
keep  out  of  sight.  Then  I  answered  the  knock,  and  said  as 
steadily  as  I  could,  "  Come  in." 

A  woman  unknown  to  me  entered,  dressed  like  a  respecta- 
ble servant.  She  came  in  leading  Lucilla  by  the  hand.  My 
first  look  at  my  darling  told  me  the  horrible  truth.  As  I 
had  seen  her  in  the  corridor  at  the  rectory  on  the  first  day 
when  we  met,  so  I  now  saw  her  once  more.  Again  the  sight- 
less eyes  turned  on  me,  insensibly  reflecting  the  light  that 


440  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

fell  on  them.  Blind  !  O  God  !  after  a  few  brief  weeks  of 
sight,  blind  again  ! 

In  that  miserable  discovery  I  forgot  every  thing  else.  I 
flew  to  her,  and  caught  her  in  my  arms.  I  cast  one  look  at 
her  pale,  wasted  face,  and  burst  out  crying  on  her  bosom. 

She  held  my  head  gently  with  one  hand,  and  waited  with 
the  patience  of  an  angel  until  that  first  outbreak  of  my  grief 
had  exhausted  itself.  "Don't  cry  about  my  blindness,"  said 
the  soft,  sweet  voice  that  I  knew  so  well.  "The  days  wjien 
I  had  my  sight  have  been  the  unhappiest  days  of  my  life. 
If  I  look  as  if  I  had  been  fretting,  don't  think  it  is  about  my 
eyes."  She  paused,  and  sighed  bitterly.  "I  may  tell  you" 
she  went  on,  in  a.  whisper.  "  It's  a  relief,  it's  a  consolation, 
to  tell  you.  I  arn  fretting  about  my  marriage." 

Those  words  roused  me.  I  lifted  my  head  and  kissed  her. 
"  I  have  come  back  to  comfort  you,"  I  said  ;  "  and  I  have  be- 
haved like  a  fool." 

She  smiled  faintly.  "How  like  you,"  she  exclaimed,  "to 
say  that !"  She  tapped  my  cheek  with  her  fingers  in  the 
old  familiar  way.  The  repetition  of  that  little  trifling  ac- 
tion almost  broke  my  heart.  I  nearly  choked  myself  in  forc- 
ing back  the  stupid,  cowardly,  useless  tears  that  tried  to 
burst  from  me  again.  "  Come  !"  she  said.  "  Xo  more  cry- 
ing. Let  us  sit  down  and  talk  as  if  we  were  at  Dimchurch." 

I  took  her  to  the  sofa ;  we  sat  side  by  side.  She  put  her 
arm  round  my  waist  and  laid  her  head  on  my  shoulder. 
Again  the  faint  smile  flickered  like  a  dying  light  on  her  love- 
ly face,  wan  and  wasted,  yet  still  beautiful — still  the  Virgin's 
face  in  Raphael's  picture.  "  We  are  a  strange  pair,"  sho 
said,  with  a  momentary  flash  of  her  old  irresistible  humor. 
"You  are  my  bitterest  enemy,  and  you  burst  out  crying  over 
me  the  moment  we  meet.  I  have  been  shockingly  treated 
by  you,  and  I  have  got  my  arm  round  your  waist  and  my 
head  on  your  shoulder,  and  I  wouldn't  let  go  of  you  for  the 
world!"  Her  face  saddened  again;  her  voice  suddenly  al- 
tered its  tone.  "  Tell  me,"  she  went  on,  "how  it  is  that  ap- 
pearances were  so  terribly  against  you  ?  Oscar  satisfied  me, 
at  Ramsgate,  that  I  ought  to  give  you  up,  that  I  ought  nev- 
er to  see  you  again.  I  took  his  view — there  is  no  denying 
it,  my  dear — I  agreed  with  him  in  detesting  you,  for  a  little 
while.  But  when  the  blindness  came  back,  I  could  keep  it 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  441 

up  no  longer.  Little  by  little,  as  the  light  died  out,  ray 
heart  would  turn  to  you  again.  When  I  heard  your  letter 
read,  when  I  knew  that  you  were  near  me,  it  was  just  like 
the  old  times ;  I  was  mad  to  see  you.  And  here  I  am — sat- 
isfied, before  you  explain  it  to  me,  that  you  have  been  the 
victim  of  some  terrible  mistake." 

I  tried,  in  grateful  acknowledgment  of  those  generous 
words,  to  enter  on  my  justification  there  and  then.  It  was 
impossible.  I  could  think  of  nothing,  I  could  speak  of  noth- 
ing, but  the  dreadful  discovery  of  her  blindness. 

"  Give  me  a  few  minutes,"  I  said,  "  and  you  shall  hear  it 
all.  I  can't  talk  of  myself  yet ;  I  can  only  talk  of  you.  Oh, 
Lucilla,  why  did  you  keep  away  from  Grosse?  Come  with 
me  to  him  to-day.  Let  him  try  what  he  can  do.  At  once, 
my  love — before  it  is  too  late !" 

"  It  is  too  late,"  she  said.  "  I  have  been  to  another  ocu- 
list— a  stranger.  He  said  what  Mr.  Sebright  said:  he  doubted 
if  there  was  ever  any  chance  for  me;  he  thought  the  opera- 
tion ought  never  to  have  been  performed." 

"Why  did  you  go  to  a  stranger?"  I  asked.  "Why  did 
you  give  up  Grosse?" 

"You  must  ask  Oscar,"  she  answered.  "It  was  at  his  de- 
sire that  I  kept  away  from  Grosse." 

Hearing  this,  I  penetrated  for  myself  the  motive  which  had 
actuated  Nugent,  as  I  afterward  found  it  set  forth  in  the 
Journal.  If  he  had  let  Lucilla  go  to  Grosse,  our  good  Ger- 
man might  have  noticed  that  her  position  was  preying  on 
her  mind,  and  might  have  seen  his  reasons  for  exposing  the 
deception  that  Nugent  was  practicing  on  her.  For  the  rest, 
I  still  persisted  iu  entreating  Lucilla  to  go  back  with  me  to 
our  old  friend. 

"Remember  our  conversation  on  this  very  subject,"  she 
rejoined,  shaking  her  head  decisively.  "I  mean  at  the  time 
when  the  operation  was  going  to  be  performed.  I  told  you 
I  was  used  to  being  blind.  I  said  I  only  wanted  to  recover 
my  sight  to  see  Oscar.  And  when  I  did  see  him — what  hap- 
pened ?  The  disappointment  was  so  dreadful,  I  wished  my- 
self blind  again.  Don't  start  !  don't  cry  out  as  if  you  were 
shocked  !  I  mean  what  I  say.  You  people  who  can  see  at- 
tach such  an  absurd  importance  to  your  eyes!  Don't  you 
recollect  my  saying  that  when  we  last  talked  about  it?" 

T2 


442  POOR  MISS   FINCH. 

I  recollected  perfectly.  She  had  said  those  words.  She 
had  declared  that  she  had  never  honestly  envied  any  of  us 
the  use  of  our  eyes.  She  had  even  reviled  our  eyes ;  compar- 
ing them  contemptuously  with  her  touch ;  deriding  them  as 
deceivers  who  were  constantly  leading  us  wrong.  I  acknowl- 
edged all  this,  without  being  in  the  least  reconciled  to  the 
catastrophe  that  had  happened.  If  she  would  only  have  lis- 
tened to  me,  I  should  still  have  gone  on  obstinately  pleading 
with  her.  But  she  flatly  refused  to  listen.  "  We  have  very 
little  time  to  spare,"  she  said.  "Let  us  talk  of  something 
more  interesting  before  I  am  obliged  to  leave  you." 

"Obliged  to  leave  me?"  I  repeated.  "Are  you  not  yo.ir 
own  mistress?" 

Her  face  clouded  over ;  her  manner  became  embarrassed. 

"  I  can  not  honestly  tell  you  that  I  am  a  prisoner,"  she  an- 
swered. "  I  can  only  say  I  am  watched.  When  Oscar  is  away 
from  me,  Oscar's  cousin — a  sly,  suspicious,  false  woman — al- 
ways contrives  to  put  herself  in  his  place.  I  heard  her  say 
to  her  husband  that  she  believed  I  should  break  my  marriage 
engagement  unless  I  was  closely  looked  after.  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  do  but  for  one  of  the  servants  in  the  house, 
who  is  an  excellent  creature,  who  sympathizes  with  me  and 
helps  me — '  She  stopped,  and  lifted  her  head  inquiringly. 
"  Where  is  the  servant  ?"  she  asked. 

I  had  forgotten  the  woman  who  had  brought  her  into  the 
room.  She  must  have  delicately  left  us  together  after 
leading  Lucilla  in.  When  I  looked  up  she  was  not  to  be 
seen. 

"The  servant  is,  no  doubt,  waiting  down  stairs,"  I  said. 
"Goon." 

"But  for  that  good  creature,"  Lucilla  resumed,  "I  should 
never  have  got  here.  She  brought  me  your  letter,  and  read 
it  to  me,  and  wrote  my  reply.  I  arranged  with  her  to  slip 
out  at  the  first  opportunity.  One  chance  was  in  our  favor — 
we  had  only  the  cousin  to  keep  an  eye  on  us.  Oscar  was  not 
in  the  house." 

She  suddenly  checked  herself  at  the  last  word.  A  slight, 
sound  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room,  which  had  passed  unno- 
ticed by  me,  had  caught  her  delicate  ear.  "  What  is  that 
noise?"  she  asked.  "Any  body  in  the  room  with  us?" 

I  looked  up  once  more.     While  she  was  talking  of  the  false 


POOR  MISS   FINCH.  443 

Oscar,  the  true  Oscar  was  standing  listening  to  her  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room. 

When  he  discovered  that  I  was  looking  at  him,  he  entreated 
me  by  a  gesture  not  to  betray  his  presence.  He  had  evident- 
ly heard  what  we  had  been  saying  to  each  other  before  I 
detected  him,  for  he  touched  his  eyes,  and  lifted  his  hands 
pityingly  in  allusion  to  Lucilla's  blindness.  Whatever  his 
mood  might  be,  that  melancholy  discovery  must  surely  have 
affected  him — Lucilla's  influence  over  him  now  could  only  be 
an  influence  for  good  ?  I  signed  to  him  to  remain,  and  told 
Lucilla  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  alarmed  about.  She 
went  on. 

"Oscar  went  to  London  early  this  morning,"  she  said. 
"Can  you  guess  what  he  has  gone  for?  He  has  gone  to  get 
the  Marriage  License — he  has  given  notice  of  the  marriage  at 
the  church  !  My  last  hope  is  in  you.  In  spite  of  every  thing 
that  I  can  say  to  him,  he  has  fixed  the  day  for  the  twenty- 
first — in  two  days  more !  I  have  done  all  I  could  to  put 
it  off;  I  have  insisted  on  every  possible  delay.  Oh,  if  you 
knew — '  Her  rising  agitation  stifled  her  utterance  for  the 
moment.  "  I  mustn't  waste  the  precious  minutes ;  I  must 
get  back  before  Oscar  returns,"  she  went  on,  rallying  again. 
"Oh,  my  old  friend,  you  are  never  at  a  loss;  you  always 
know  what  to  do!  Find  me  some  way  of  putting  off  my 
marriage.  Suggest  something  which  will  take  them  by  sur- 
prise, and  force  them  to  give  me  time  !" 

I  looked  toward  the  lower  end  of  the  room.  Listening  in 
breathless  interest,  Oscar  had  noiselessly  advanced  half-way 
toward  us.  At  a  sign  from  me  he  checked  himself,  and  came 
no  farther. 

"  Do  you  really  mean,  Lucilla,  that  you  no  longer  love  him?" 
I  said. 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing  about  it,"  she  answered,  "except 
that  sonic  dreadful  change  has  come  over  me.  While  I  had 
my  sight  I  could  partly  account  for  it — I  believed  that  the 
new  sense  had  made  a  new  being  of  me.  But  now  I  have 
lost  my  sight  again — now  I  am  once  more  what  I  have  been 
all  iny  life — still  the  same  horrible  insensibility  possesses  me. 
I  have  so  little  feeling  for  him  that  I  sometimes  find  it  hard 
to  persuade  myself  that  he  really  is  Oscar.  You  know  how 
I  used  to  adore  him ;  you  know  how  enchanted  I  should  once 


444  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

have  been  to  marry  him.  Think  of  what  I  must  suffer,  feel- 
ing toward  him  as  I  feel  now  !" 

I  looked  up  again.  Oscar  had  stolen  nearer ;  I  could  see 
his  face  plainly.  The  good  influence  of  Lucilla  was  beginning 
to  do  its  good  work!  I  saw  the  tears  rising  in  his  eyes;  I 
.saw  love  and  pity  taking  the  place  of  hatred  and  revenge. 
The  Oscar  of  my  old  recollections  was  standing  before  me 
once  more ! 

"I  don't  want  to  go  away,"  Lncilla  went  on;  "I  don't 
want  to  leave  him.  All  I  ask  for  is  a  little  more  time.  Time 
must  help  me  to  get  back  again  to  my  old  self.  My  blind 
days  have  been  the  days  of  my  whole  life.  Can  a  few  weeks 
of  sight  have  deprived  me  of  the  feelings  which  have  been 
growing  in  me  for  years?  I  won't  believe  it !  I  can  find  my 
way  about  the  house ;  I  can  tell  things  by  my  touch ;  I  can 
do  all  that  I  did  in  my  blindness,  just  as  well  as  ever,  now  I 
am  blind  again.  The  feeling  for  him  will  come  back  to  me 
like  the  rest.  Only  give  me  time!  only  give  me  time!" 

At  the  last  word  she  started  to  her  feet  in  sudden  alarm. 
"There  is  some  one  in  the  room,"  she  said.  "Some  one  who 
is  crying  !  Who  is  it  ?" 

Oscar  was  close  to  us.  The  tears  were  falling  fast  over  his 
cheeks ;  the  one  faint,  sobbing  breath  which  had  escaped  him 
had  caught  my  ear  as  well  as  Lucilla's.  I  took  his  hand  in 
one  of  my  hands,  and  I  took  Lucilla's  hand  in  the  other.  For 
good  or  for  evil,  the  result  rested  with  God's  mercy.  The  time 
had  come. 

"Who  is  it?"  Lucilla  repeated,  impatiently. 

"Try  if  you  can  tell,  my  love,  without  asking  me." 

With  those  words,  I  put  her  hand  in  Oscar's  hand,  and 
stood  close,  watching  her  face. 

For  one  awful  moment,  when  she  first  felt  the  familiar 
touch,  the  blood  left  her  cheeks.  Her  blind  eyes  dilated  fear- 
fully. She  stood  petrified.  Then,  with  a  long,  low  cry — a 
cry  of  breathless  rapture — she  flung  her  arms  passionately 
round  his  neck.  The  life  flowed  back  into  her  face ;  her 
lovely  smile  just  trembled  on  her  parted  lips;  her  breath 
came  faint  and  quick  and  fluttering.  In  soft  tones  of  ecstasy, 
with  her  lips  on  his  cheek,  she  murmured  the  delicious  words: 

"Oh,  Oscar !     I  know  you  once  more  !" 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  445 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTIETH. 

THE    END    OF   THE   JOURNEY. 

A  LITTLE  interval  of  time  elapsed. 

Her  first  exquisite  sense  of  the  recognition  by  touch  had 
passed  away.  Her  mind  had  recovered  its  balance.  She 
separated  herself  from  Oscar,  and  turned  to  me,  with  the  one 
inevitable  question  which  I  knew  must  follow  the  joining  of 
their  hands. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

The  exposure  of  Nugent's  perfidy ;  the  revelation  of  the 
fatal  secret  of  Oscar's  face ;  and,  last  not  leastj  the  defense 
of  my  own  conduct  toward  her,  were  all  comprehended  in 
the  answer  for  which  that  question  called.  As  carefully,  as 
delicately,  as  mercifully  as  I  could,  I  disclosed  to  her  the 
whole  truth.  How  the  shock  affected  her,  she  did  not  tell 
me  at  the  time,- and  has  never  told  me  since.  With  her  hand 
in  Oscar's  hand,  with  her  face  hidden  on  Oscar's  breast,  she 
listened  ;  not  once  interrupting  me,  from  first  to  last,  by  so 
much  as  a  single  word.  Now  and  then  I  saw  her  tremble; 
now  and  then  I  heard  her  sigh  heavily.  That  was  all.  It 
was  only  when  I  had  ended — it  was  only  after  a  long  interval, 
during  which  Oscar  and  I  watched  her  in  speechless  anxiety 
— that  she  slowly  lifted  her  head  and  broke  the  silence. 

"Thank  God,"  we  heard  her  say  to  herself,  fervently — 
"  thank  God,  I  am  blind  !" 

Those  were  her  last  words.  They  filled  me  with  horror. 
I  cried  out  to  her  to  recall  them. 

She  quietly  laid  her  head  back  on  Oscar's  breast. 

"Why  should  I  recall  them?"  she  asked.  "Do  you  think 
I  wish  to  see  him  disfigured  as  he  is  now?  No!  I 'wish  to 
see  him — and  I  do  see  him! — as  my  fancy  drew  his  picture 
in  the  first  days  of  our  love.  My  blindness  is  my  blessing. 
It  has  given  me  back  my  old  delightful  sensation  when  I 
touch  him;  it  keeps  my  own  beloved  image  of  him — the  one 
image  I  care  for — unchanged  and  unchangeable.  You  trill 
persist  in  thinking  that  my  happiness  depends  on  my  sight. 
I  look  back  with  horror  at  what  I  suffered  when  I  had  my 


446  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

sight — my  one  effort  is  to  forget  that  miserable  time.  Oh, 
how  little  you  know  of  me  !  Oh,  what  a  loss  it  would  be  to 
me  if  I  saw  him  as  you  see  him  !  Try  to,  understand  me,  and 
you  won't  talk  of  my  affliction — you  will  talk  of  my  gain." 

"  Your  gain  !"  I  repeated.     "  What  have  you  gained  ?" 

"  Happiness,"  she  answered.  "  My  life  lives  in  my  love. 
And  my  love  lives  in  my  blindness." 

There  was  the  story  of  her  whole  existence — told  in  two 
words ! 

If  you  had  seen  her  radiant  face  as  she  raised  it  again  in 
the  excitement  of  speaking — if  you  had  remembered  (as  I  re- 
membered) what  her  surgeon  had  said  of  the  penalty  which 
she  must  inevitably  pay  for  the  recovery  of  her  sight — how 
would  you  have  answered  her  ?  It  is  barely  possible, perhaps, 
that  you  might  have  done  what  I  did.  That  is  to  say,  you 
might  have  modestly  admitted  that  she  knew  what  the  con- 
ditions of  her  happiness  were  better  than  you  —  and  you 
might  not  have  answered  her  at  all  ! 

I  left  Oscar  and  Lucilla  to  talk  together,  and  took  a  turn  in 
the  room,  considering  with  myself  what  we  were  to  do  next. 

It  was  not  easy  to  say.  The  barren  information  which  I  had 
received  from  my  darling  was  all  the  information  that  I  pos- 
sessed. Nugent  had  unflinchingly  carried  his  cruel  decep- 
tion to  its  end.  He  had  falsely  given  notice  of  his  marriage 
at  the  church  in  his  brother's  name,  and  he  was  now  in  Lon- 
don falsely  obtaining  his  Marriage  License  in  his  brother's 
name  also.  So  much  I  knew  of  his  proceedings,  and  no  more. 

While  I  was  still  pondering  Lucilla  cut  the  Gordian  knot. 

"  Why  are  we  stopping  here  ?"  she  asked.  "  Let  us  go — 
and  never  return  to  this  hateful  place  again  !" 

As  she  rose  to  her  feet  we  were  startled  by  a  soft  knock 
at  the  door. 

I  answered  the  knock.  The  woman  who  had  brought  Lu- 
cilla to  the  hotel  appeared  once  more.  She  seemed  to  be 
afraid  to  venture  far  from  the  door.  Standing  just  inside  the 
room, she  looked  nervously  at  Lucilla,  and  said,  "Can  I  speak 
to  you,  miss  ?" 

"  You  can  say  any  thing  you  like  before  this  lady  and  gen- 
tleman," Lucilla  answered.  "  What  is  it  ?" 

"  I'm  afraid  we  have  been  followed,  miss." 


POOR   MISS   FINCH.  447 

"  Followed  !    By  whom  ?" 

"  By  the  lady's-maid.  I  saw  her,  a  little  while  since,  look- 
ing up  at  the  hotel,  and  then  she  went  back  in  a  hurry  on  the 
way  to  the  house — and  that's  riot  the  worst  of  it,  miss." 

"  What  else  has  happened  ?" 

"We  have  made  a  mistake  about  the  railway,"  said  the 
woman.  "  There's  a  train  from  London  that  we  didn't  notice 
ia  the  time-table.  They  tell  me  down  stairs  it  came  in  more 
than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  Please  to  come  back,  miss, 
or  I  fear  we  shall  be  found  out." 

"  You  can  go  back  at  once,  Jane,"  said  Lucilla. 

"  By  myself?" 

t;  Yes.     Thank  you  for  bringing  me  here — here  I  remain." 

She  liad  barely  taken  her  seat  again  between  Oscar  and  me 
before  the  door  was  softly  opened  from  the  outside.  A  long, 
thin,  nervous  hand  stole  in  through  the  opening,  took  the  serv- 
ant by  the  arm,  and  drew  her  out  into  the  passage.  In  her 
place,  a  man  entered  the  room  with  his  hat  on.  The  man 
was  Nugent  Dubourg. 

He  stopped  where  the  servant  had  stopped.  He  looked  at 
Lucilla  ;  he  looked  at  his  brother  ;  he  looked  at  me. 

Not  a  word  fell  from  him.  There  he  stood,  fronting  the 
friend  whom  he  had  calumniated,  and  the  brother  whom  he 
had  betrayed.  There  he  stood — with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Lu- 
cilla, sitting  between  us — knowing  that  it  was  all  over;  know- 
ing that  the  woman  for  whom  he  had  degraded  himself  was 
a  woman  parted  from  him  forever.  There  he  stood,  in  the 
hell  of  his  own  making,  and  devoured  his  torture  in  silence. 

On  his  brother's  appearance,  Oscar  had  risen,  and  had  put 
his  arm  round  Lucilla.  He  now  advanced  a  step  toward  Nu- 
gent, still  holding  to  him  his  betrothed  wife. 

I  followed  him,  eagerly  watching  his  face.  There  was  no 
fear  in  me  now  of  what  he  might  do.  Lucilla's  blessed  influ- 
ence had  found,  and  cast  out,  the  lurking  demon  that  had 
been  hidden  in  him.  With  a  mind  attentive  but  not  alarm- 
ed, I  waited  to  see  how  he  would  meet  the  emergency  that 
confronted  him. 

"  Nugent !"  he  said  very  quietly. 

Nugent's  head  drooped — he  made  no  answer. 

Lucilla,  hearing  Oscar  pronounce  the  name,  instantly  un- 
derstood what  had  happened.  She  shuddered  with  horror. 


448  POOR  MISS   FINCH. 

Oscar  gently  placed  her  in  my  arms,  and  advanced  again 
alone  toward  his  brother.  His  face  expressed  the  struggle 
in  him  of  some  subtly  mingling  influences  of  love  and  anguish, 
of  sorrow  and  shame.  He  recalled  to  me  in  the  strangest 
manner  my  past  experience  of  him  when  he  had  first  trusted 
me  with  the  story  of  the  Trial,  and  when  lie  had  told  me 
that  Nugent  was  the  good  angel  of  his  life. 

He  went  up  to  the  place  at  which  his  brother  was  stand- 
ing. In  the  simple,  boyish  way  so  familiar  to  me  in  the  by- 
gone time,  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  brother's  arm. 

"  Nugent !"  he  said.  "  Are  you  the  same  dear,  good  brother 
who  saved  me  from  dying  on  the  scaffold,  and  who  cheered 
my  hard  life  afterward  ?  Are  you  the  same  bright,  clever, 
noble  fellow  that  I  was  always  so  fond  of  and  so  proud  of?" 

He  paused,  and  removed  his  brother's  hat.  With  careful, 
caressing  hand,  he  parted  his  brother's  ruffled  hair  over  his 
forehead.  Nugent's  head  sank  lower.  His  face  was  distort- 
ed, his  hands  were  clinched,  in  the  dumb  agony  of  remem- 
brance which  that  tender  voice  and  that  kind  hand  had  set 
loose  in  him.  Oscar  gave  him  time  to  recover  himself:  Os- 
car spoke  next  to  me. 

"You  know  Nugent  ?"  he  said.  "  You  remember,  when  we 
first  met,  my  telling  you  that  Nugent  was  an  angel  ?  You 
saw  for  yourself,  when  he  came  to  Dimchurch,  how  kindly  he 
helped  me  ;  how  faithfully  he  kept  my  secrets;  what  a  true 
friend  he  was?  Look  at  him — and  you  will  feel,  as  I  do, 
that  we  have  misunderstood  and  misinterpreted  him  in  some 
monstrous  way."  He  turned  again  to  Nugent.  "  I  daren't 
tell  you,"  he  went  on,  "  what  I  have  heard  about  you,  and 
what  I  have  believed  about  you,  and  what  vile  unbrothcrly 
thoughts  I  have  had  of  being  revenged  on  you.  Thank  God, 
they  are  gone  !  My  dear  fellow,  I  look  back  at  them — now 
I  see  you — as  I  might  look  back  at  a  horrible  dream.  How 
can  I  see  you,  Nugent,  and  believe  that  you  have  been  false 
to  me?  You,  a  villain  who  has  tried  to  rob  poor  Me  of  the 
only  woman  in  the  world  who  cares  for  me  !  You,  so  hand- 
some and  so  popular,  who  may  marry  any  woman  you  like  ! 
It  can't  be.  You  have  drifted  innocently  into  some  false  po- 
sition without  knowing  it.  Defend  yourself!  No.  Let  we 
defend  you.  You  sha'n't  humble  yourself  to  any  body.  Tell 
me  how  you  have  really  acted  toward  Lucilla  and  toward 


POOR    MISS    FINCIL  449 

me,  and  leave  it  to  your  brother  to  set  you  right  with  every 
body.  Come,  Nugent !  lift  up  your  head — and  tell  me  what 
1  shall  say." 

Nugent  lifted  his  head,  and  looked  at  Oscar. 

Ghastly  as  his  face  was,  I  saw  something  in  his  eyes,  when 
he  first  fixed  them  on  his  brother,  which  again  reminded  me 
of  past  days — the  days  when  he  had  joined  us  at  Dimchurch, 
and  when  he  used  to  talk  of  "poor  Oscar"  in  the  tender,  light- 
hearted  way  that  first  won  me.  I  thought  once  more  of  the 
memorable  night  interview  between  us  at  Browndown,  when 
Oscar  had  left  England.  Again  I  called  to  mind  the  signs 
which  had  told  of  the  nobler  nature  of  the  man  pleading  with 
him.  Aijain  I  remembered  the  remorse  which  had  moved  him 

o 

to  tears — the  effort  he  had  made  in  my  presence  to  atone  for 
past  misdoing,  and  to  struggle  for  the  last  time  against  the 
guilty  passion  that  possessed  him.  Was  the  nature  which 
could  feel  that  remorse  utterly  depraved  ?  Was  the  man  who 
had  made  that  effort — the  last  of  the  many  that  had  gone 
before  it — irredeemably  bad?  "Wait!"  I  whispered  to  Lu- 
cilla,  trembling  and  weeping  in  my  arms.  "  He  will  deserve 
our  sympathy  ;  he  will  win  our  pardon  and  our  pity  yet !" 

"Come  !"  Oscar  repeated.     "  Tell  me  what  I  shall  say." 

Nugent  drew  from  his  pocket  a  sheet  of  paper  with  writ- 
ing on  it. 

"Say,"  he  answered, "  that  I  gave  notice  of  your  marriage  at 
the  church  here — and  that  I  went  to  London  and  got  you  this." 

He  handed  the  sheet  of  paper  to  his  brother.  It  was  the 
Marriage  License,  taken  out  in  his  brother's  name. 

"  Be  happy,  Oscar,"  he  added.     "  You  deserve  it." 

He  threw  one  arm  in  his  old,  easy,  protecting  way  round 
his  brother.  His  hand,  as  he  did  this,  touched  the  breast 
pocket  of  Oscar's  coat.  Before  it  was  possible  to  stop  him, 
his  dexterous  fingers  had  opened  the  pocket,  and  had  taken 
from  it  a  little  toy  pistol,  with  a  chased  silver  handle  of  Os- 
car's own  workmanship. 

"  Was  this  for  me  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  My 
poor  boy  !  you  could  never  have  done  it,  could  you  ?"  He 
kissed  Oscar's  dark  cheek,  and  put  the  pistol  into  his  own 
pocket.  "  The  handle  is  your  own  work,"  he  said.  "  I  shall 
take  it  as  your  present  to  me.  Return  to  Browndown  v.  l.on 
you  are  married.  I  am  going  to  travel  again.  You  shall 


450  POOR    MISS    FINCH. 

hear  from  me  before  I  leave  England.  God  bless  you,  Oscar. 
Good-by." 

He  put  his  brother  back  from  him  with  a  firm  and  gentle 
hand.  I  attempted  to  advance  with  Lucilla,  and  speak  to 
him.  Something  in  his  face — looking  at  me  out  of  his  mourn- 
ful eyes,  calm,  stem,  and  superhuman,  like  a  look  of  doom — 
warned  me  back  from  him,  and  filled  me  with  the  foreboding 
that  I  should  see  him  no  more.  He  walked  to  the  door,  and 
opened  it — turned — and,  fixing  his  farewell  look  on  Lucilla, 
saluted  us  silently  with  a  bend  of  his  head.  The  door  closed  on 
him  softly.  In  a  few  minutes  only  from  the  time  when  he  had 
entered  the  room  he  had  left  us  again — and  left  us  forever. 

We  looked  at  each  other — we  could  not  speak.  The  void 
that  he  had  left  behind  him  was  dreary  and  dreadful.  I  was 
the  first  who  moved.  In  silence  I  led  Lucilla  back  to  our  seat 
on  the  sofa,  and  beckoned  to  Oscar  to  go  to  her  in  my  place. 

This  done,  I  left  them — and  went  out  to  meet  Lucilla's  fa- 
ther on  his  return  to  the  hotel.  I  wished  to  prevent  him 
from  disturbing  them.  After  what  had  happened,  it  was 
good  for  them  to  be  alone. 


EPILOGUE. 

MADAME    PKATOLUNGO'S   LAST    WOKDS. 

TWELVE  years  have  passed  since  the  events  happened 
which  it  has  been  the  business  of  these  pages  to  relate.  I  am 
at  my  desk,  looking  idly  at  all  the  leaves  of  writing  which 
my  pen  has  filled,  and  asking  myself  if  there  is  more  yet  to 
add  before  I  have  done. 

There  is  more — not  much. 

Oscar  and  Lucilla  claim  me  first.  Two  days  after  they 
were  restored  to  each  other  at  Sydenham  they  were  married 
at  the  church  in  that  place.  It  was  a  dull  wedding.  No- 
body was  in  spirits  but  Mr.  Finch.  We  parted  in  London. 
The  bride  and  bridegroom  returned  to  Browndown.  The 
rector  remained  in  town  for  a  day  or  two  visiting  some 
friends.  I  went  back  to  my  father,  to  accompany  him,  as  I 
had  promised,  on  his  journey  from  Marseilles  to  Paris. 

As  well  as  I  remember,  I  remained  a  fortnight  abroad.  In 
the  course  of  that  time  I  received  kind  letters  from  Brown- 


POOR    MISS    FINCH.  451 

down.  One  of  them  announced  that  Oscar  had  heard  from 
his  brother. 

Nugent's  letter  was  not  a  long  one.  It  was  dated  at  Liv- 
erpool, and  it  announced  his  embarkation  for  America  in  two 
hours'  time.  He  had  heard  of  a  new  expedition  to  the  arctic 
regions — then  fitting  out  in  the  United  States — with  the  ob- 
ject of  discovering  the  open  polar  sea  supposed  to  be  situated 
between  Spitzbergen  and  Nova  Zembla.  It  had  instantly 
struck  him  that  this  expedition  offered  an  entirely  new  field 
of  study  to  a  landscape  painter  in  search  of  the  sublimest 
aspects  of  Nature.  He  had  decided  on  volunteering  to  join 
the  arctic  explorers,  and  he  had  already  raised  the  necessary 
money  for  his  outfit  by  the  sale  of  the  only  valuables  he  pos- 
sessed— his  jewelry  and  his  books.  If  he  wanted  more,  he 
engaged  to  apply  to  Oscar.  In  any  case,  he  promised  to  write 
again  before  the  expedition  sailed.  And  so,  for  the  present 
only,  he  would  bid  his  brother  and  sister  affectionately  fare- 
well.— When  I  afterward  looked  at  the  letter  myself,  I  found 
nothing  in  it  which  referred  in  the  slightest  degree  to  the 
past,  or  which  hinted  at  the  state  of  the  writer's  own  health 
and  spirits. 

I  returned  to  our  remote  Southdown  village,  and  occupied 
the  room  which  Lucilla  had  herself  prepared  for  me  at  Brown- 
down. 

I  found  the  married  pair  as  tranquil  and  as  happy  in  their 
union  as  a  man  and  woman  could  be.  The  absent  Nugent 
dwelt  a  little  sadly  in  their  minds  at  times,  I  suspect,  as  well 
as  in  mine.  It  was  perhaps  on  this  account  that  Lucilla  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  quieter  than  she  used  to  be  in  her  maiden 
days.  However,  my  presence  did  something  toward  restor- 
ing her  to  her  old  spirits,  and  Grosse's  speedy  arrival  exert- 
ed its  enlivening  influence  in  support  of  mine. 

As  soon  as  the  gout  would  let  him  get  on  his  feet  he  pre- 
sented himself  with  his  instruments  at  Browndown,  eager  for 
another  experiment  on  Luuilla's  eyes.  "  If  my  operations 
had  failed,"  he  said,  "  I  should  not  have  plagued  you  no  more. 
But  my  operations  has  not  failed:  it  is  you  who  have  failed 
to  take  care  of  your  nice  new  eyes  when  I  gave  them  to  you." 
In  those  terms  he  endeavored  to  persuade  her  to  let  him  at- 
tempt another  operation.  She  steadily  refused  to  submit  to 
it,  and  the  discussion  that  followed  roused  her  famously. 


452  POOR   MISS   FINCH. 

More  than  once  afterward  Grosse  tried  to  make  her  change 
her  mind.  He  tried  in  vain.  The  disputes  between  the  two 
made  the  house  ring  again.  Lucilla  found  all  her  old  gayety 
in  refuting  the  grotesque  arguments  and  persuasions  of  our 
worthy  German.  To  me — when  I  once  or  twice  attempted 
to  shake  her  resolution — she  replied  in  another  way,  merely 
repeating  the  words  she  had  said  to  me  at  Sydenham, "  My 
life  lives  in  my  love.  And  my  love  lives  in  my  blindness." 
It  is  only  right  to  add  that  Mr.  Sebright,  and  another  com- 
petent authority,  consulted  with  him,  declared  unhesitating- 
ly that  she  was  right.  Under  any  circumstances,  Mr.  Se- 
bright was  of  opinion  that  the  success  of  Grosse's  operation 
could  never  have  been  more  than  temporary.  His  colleague, 
after  examining  Lucilla's  eyes  at  a  later  period,  entirely 
agreed  with  him.  Which  was  in  the  right  —  these  two  or 

o  o 

Grosse — who  can  say  ?  As  blind  Lucilla,  you  first  knew  her. 
As  blind  Lucilla,  you  see  the  last  of  her  now.  If  you  feel  in- 
clined to  regret  this,  remember  that  the  one  thing  essential 
was  the  thing  she  possessed.  Her  life  was  a  happy  one. 
Bear  this  in  mind — and  don't  forget  that  your  conditions  of 
happiness  need  not  necessarily  be  her  conditions  also. 

In  the  time  I  am  now  writing  of,  the  second  letter  from 
Nugent  arrived.  It  was  written  the  evening  before  he  sailed 
for  the  polar  seas.  One  line  in  it  touched  us  deeply.  "  Who 
knows  whether  Lshall  ever  see  England  again?  If  a  boy  is 
born  to  you,  Oscar,  call  him  by  my  name — for  my  sake." 

Inclosed  in  this  letter  was  a  private  communication  from 
Nugent  addressed  to  me.  It  was  the  confession  to  which  I 
have  alluded  in  my  notes  attached  to  Lucilla's  Journal. 
These  words  only  were  added  at  the  end :  "  You  now  know 
every  thing.  Forgive  me — if  you  can.  I  have  not  escaped 
without  suffering:  remember  that."  After  making  use  of 
the  narrative,  as  you  already  know,  I  have  burned  it  all,  ex- 
cept those  last  lines. 

At  distant  intervals  we  heard  twice  of  the  exploring-ship 
from  whaling-vessels.  Then  there  was  a  long,  dreary  inter- 
val without  news  of  any  sort.  Then  a  dreadful  report  that 
the  expedition  was  lost.  Then  the  confirmation  of  the  report 
— a  lapse  of  a  whole  year,  and  no  tidings  of  the  missing  men. 

They  were  well  provided  with  supplies  of  all  kinds,  and 
there  was  a  general  hope  that  they  might  be  holding  out. 


POOR    MISS   FINCH.  453 

A  new  expedition  was  sent — and  sent  vainly — in  search  of 
them  overland.  Rewards  were  offered  to.  whaling-vessels  to 
find  them,  and  were  never  earned.  We  wore  mourning  for 
Nugent;  we  were  a  melancholy  house-hold.  Two  more  years 
passed  before  the  fate  of  the  lost  expedition  was  discovered. 
A  ship  in  the  whale  trade,  driven  i>ut  of  her  course,  fell  in 
with  a  wrecked  and  dismantled  vessel  lost  in  the  ice.  Let  the 
last  sentences  of  the  captain's  report  tell  the  story: 

"The  wreck  was  drifting  along  a  channel  of  open  water 
when  we  first  saw  it.  Before  long  it  was  brought  up  by  an 
iceberg.  I  got  into  my  boat  with  some  of  my  sailors,  and  we 
rowed  to  the  vessel. 

"Not  a  man  was  to  be  seen  on  the  deck,  which  was  cov- 
ered with  snow.  We  hailed,  and  got  no  reply.  I  looked  in 
through  one  of  the  circular  glazed  port-holes  astern,  and  saw 
dimly  the  figure  of  a  man  seated  at  a  table.  I  knocked  on 
the  thick  glass,  but  he  never  moved.  We  got  on  deck,  and 
opened  the  cabin  hatchway,  and  went  below.  The  man  I  had 
seen  was  before  us,  at  the  end  of  the  cabin.  I  led  the  way, 
and  spoke  to  him.  He  made  no  answer.  1  looked  closer, 
and  touched  one  of  his  hands  which  lay  on  the  table.  To 
my  horror  and  astonishment,  he  was  a  frozen  corpse. 

"  On  the  table  before  him  was  the  last  entry  in  the  ship's 
log: 

"'Seventeen  days  since  we  have  been  shut  up  in  the  ice! 
Our  fire  went  out  yesterday.  The  captain  tried  to  light  it 
again,  and  has  failed.  The  surgeon  and  two  seamen  died  of 
cold  this  morning.  The  rest  of  us  miijt  soon  follow.  If  we  are 
ever  discovered,  I  beg  the  person  who  finds  me  to  send  this — 

"There  the  hand  that  held  the  pen  had  dropped  into  the 
writer's  lap.  The  left  hand  still  lay  on  the  table.  Between 
the  frozen  fingers  we  found  a  long  lock  of  a  woman's  hair 
tied  at  each  end  with  a  blue  ribbon.  The  open  eyes  of  the 
corpse  were  still  fixed  on  the  lock  of  hair. 

"The  name  of  this  man  was  found  in  his  pocket-book.  It 
was  Nugent  Dubourg.  I  publish  the  name  in  my  report,  in 
case  it  may  meet  the  eyes  of  his  friends. 

"  Examination  of  the  rest  of  the  vessel,  and  comparison  of 
dates  with  the  date  of  the  log-book,  showed  that  the  officers 
and  crew  had  been  dead  for  more  than  two  years.  The  posi- 
tions in  which  we  found  the  frozen  men,  and  the  names  where 


454  POOR   MISS    FINCH. 

it  was  possible  to  discover  them,  are  here  set  forth  as  fol- 
lows" .  .  . 

That  "  lock  of  a  woman's  hair"  is  now  in  Lucilla's  posses- 
sion. It  will  be  buried  with  her,  at  her  own  request,  when 
she  dies.  Ah,  poor  Nugent!  Are  we  not  all  sinners?  Re- 
member the  best  of  him,  and  forget  the  worst,  as  we  do. 

I  still  linger  over  my  writing — reluctant  to  leave  it,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told.  But  what  more  is  there  to  say?  I  hear 
Oscar  hammering  away  at  his  chasing,  and  whistling  blithe- 
ly over  his  work.  In  another  room  Lucilla  is  teaching  the 
piano  to  her  little  girl.  On  my  table  is  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Finch,  dated  from  one  of  our  distant  colonies — over  which 
Mr.  Finch  (who  has  risen  gloriously  in  the  world)  presides 
pastorally  as  bishop.  He  harangues  the  "natives"  to  his 
heart's  content:  and  the  wonderi'ul  natives  like  it.  "Jicks" 
is  in  her  element  among  the  aboriginal  members  of  her  fa- 

o  o 

ther's  congregation  :  there  are  fears  that  the  wandering  Arab 
of  the  Finch  family  will  end  in  marrying  "  a  chief."  Mrs. 
Finch — I  don't  expect  you  to  believe  this — is  anticipating 
another  confinement. 

Lucilla's  eldest  boy — called  Nugent  —  has  just  come  in, 
and  stands  by  my  desk.  He  lifts  his  bright  blue  eyes  up  to 
mine ;  his  round,  rosy  face  expresses  strong  disapproval  of 
what  I  am  doing.  "Aunty,"  he  says,  "you  have  written 
enough.  Come  and  play." 

The  boy  is  right.  I  must  put  away  my  manuscript  and 
leave  you.  My  excellent  spirits  are  a  little  dashed  at  part- 
ing. I  wonder  whether  you  are  sorry  too?  I  shall  never 
know  !  Well,  I  have  many  blessings  to  comfort  me  on  clos- 
ing my  relations  with  you.  I  have  kind  souls  who  love  me; 
and — observe  this  !  —  I  stand  on  my  political  principles  ns 
firmly  as  ever.  The  world  is  getting  converted  to  my  way 
of  thinking:  the  Pratolungo  programme,  my  friends,  is  com- 
ing to  the  front  with  giant  steps.  Long  live  the  Republic ! 
Farewell. 


THE    END, 


VALUABLE  AND  INTERESTING  WORKS 

FOR 

PUBLIC  AND  P1UVATE  LIBRARIES 

PUBLISHED  BY  IIARPEH  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


tw~  Far  a  full  List  of  Hooks  suitab'efor  Libraries  published  by  HAKPKR  &  BBOTW 
BUS.  nee  UABPKB'B  CATAI.OOUK.  which  may  be  had  gratwbnmly  on  ap/>lira 
tion  to  the  puolishery  personally,  or  by  letter  enclosing  Ten  Cent*  in  j/oHtagf 
stamps. 

tiF~  The  above  works  are  for  «<i/e  b;i  ull  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  HABTKK  & 
I  Sue  >TH  F  us  to  any  addresx,  )>o»taije  prepaid  {.except  school  atut  col/eye  text- 
books indicated  by  an  asterisk  (*),  to  the  Hat  price  of  whii-h  10  p-r  cent 
should  be  added/or  postage],  on  receipt  of  price. 

BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON,  Including  Boswell's  Journal  of  a 
Tour  to  the  Hebrides,  and  Johnson's  Diary  of  u  Journey  into  North 
Wales.  Edited  by  GEORGK  BIKKBECK  HILL,  D.C.L.,  Pembroke 
College,  Oxford.  6  vols.,  Cloth,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $10  00. 

THE  JOURNAL  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  1825-1832.  From  the 
Original  Manuscript  at  Abbotsford.  With  Two  Portraits  and  En- 
graved Title-pages.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt 
Tops,  $7  50;  Half  Calf,  $12  00.  Also  a  l^ojwlar  Edition  in  one 
volume,  Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

STUDIES  IN  CHAUCER:  His  Life  and  Writings.  By  THOMAS  R. 
LOUNSBUKY,  Professor  of  English  in  the  Sheffield  Scientific  School 
of  Yale  University.  With  a  Portrait  of  Chaucer.  3  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth, 
Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $9  00.  (In  a  Box.) 

INDIKA.  The  Country  and  the  People  of  India  and  Ceylon.  By 
JOHN  F.  HURST,  D.D.,  LL.D.  With  6  Maps  and  250  Illustrations. 
8vo,  Cloth,  $3  75;  Half  Morocco,  $5  75. 

MOTLEY'S  LETTERS.  The  Correspondence  of  John  Lothrop  Mot- 
lev,  D.C.L.  Edited  bv  GKORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS.  With  Portrait. 
2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $7  00 ;  Sheep,  $8  00;  Half  Calf,  $11  50. 

MACAULAY'S  ENGLAND.  The  History  of  England  from  the  Ac- 
cession of  James  II.  By  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY.  5  vols., 
in  a  Bo::,  8vo,  Cloth,  with  Paper  Labels,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt 
Tops,  $10  00;  Sheep,  $12  50;  Half  Calf,  $21  25.  Also  5  Yols., 
12mo,  Cloth,  $2  50;  Sheep,  $3  75. 

MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WORKS.  The  Miscellaneous 
Works  of  Lord  Macaulay.  5  vols.,  in  a  Box,  8vo,  Cloth,  with 
Paper  Labels,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $10  00;  Sheep,  $1?  50, 
Half  Calf,  $21  25. 


2  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works. 

HUME'S  ENGLAND.  History  of  England,  from  the  Invasion  of 
Julius  Caesar  to  the  Abdication  of  James  II. ,  1688.  By  DAVID 
HUME.  6  vols.,  in  a  Box,  8vo,  Cloth,  with  Paper  Labels,  Uncut 
Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $12  00;  Sheep,  $15  00;  Half  Calf,  $25  5<X 
Also  6  vols.,  in  a  Box,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00;  Sheep,  $4  50. 

THE  WORKS  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  Edited  by  PBTKE 
CUNNINGHAM,  F.S,A.  4  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  Paper  Labels,  Uncut 
Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $8  00;  Sheep,  $10  00;  Half  Calf,  $17  00. 

THE  RISE  OF  THE  DUTCH  REPUBLIC.  A  History.  By  JOHN 
LOTHROP  MOTLBY,  LL.D.,  D.C.L.  With  a  Portrait  of  William  of 
Orange.  3  vols.,  in  a  Box.  8vo,  Cloth,  with  Paper  Labels,  Uncut 
Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $G  00;  Sheep,  $7  50;  Half  Calf,  $12  75. 

HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  NETHERLANDS :  From  the  Death 
of  William  the  Silent  to  the  Twelve  Years'  Truce — 1548-1609.  With 
a  full  View  of  the  English-Dutch  Struggle  against  Spain,  and  of  the 
Origin  and  Destruction  of  the  Spanish  Armada.  By  JOHN  LOTHROP 
MOTLEY,  LL.D.,  D.C.L.  Portraits.  4  vols.,  in  a  Box,  8vo,  Cloth, 
with  Paper  Labels,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $8  00;  Sheep, 
$10  00;  Half  Calf,  $17  00. 

THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  JOHN  OF  BARNEVELD,  Advo- 
cate of  Holland.  With  a  View  of  the  Primary  Causes  and  Move- 
ments of  the  "Thirty  Years' War."  By  JOHN  LOTHUOP  MOTLEV, 
LL.D.,  D.C.L.  Illustrated.  2  vols.,  in  a  Box,  8vo,  Cloth,  witb 
Paper  Labels,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $4  00;  Sheep,  $5  00; 
Half  Calf,  $8  50. 

GIBBON'S  ROME.  The  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Ro- 
man Empire.  By  EDWARD  GIBBON.  With  Notes  by  Dean  MIL- 
MAN,  M.  GUIZOT,  and  Dr.  WILLIAM  SMITH.  6  vols.,  in  a  Box,  8vo, 
Cloth,  with  Paper  Labels,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $12  00; 
Sheep,  $15  00;  Half  Calf,  $25  50.  Also  6  vols.,  in  a  Box,  12mo. 
Cloth,  $3  00 ;  Sheep,  $4  50. 

A.  DICTIONARY  OF  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  Pronounc- 
ing, Etymological,  and  Explanatory:  embracing  Scientific  and  other 
Terms,  Numerous  Familiar  Terms,  and  a  Copious  Selection  of  Old 
English  Words.  By  the  Rev.  JAMES  STORMOKTII.  The  Pronuncia- 
tion Revised  by  the  Rev.  P.  H.  PIIELP,  M.A.  Imperial  8vo,  Cloth, 
$5  00;  Half  Roan,  $6  50;  Full  Sheep,  $6  50. 

THARAOHS,  FELLAHS,  AND  EXPLORERS.  By  AMELIA  B. 
EDWARDS.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  Uncut  Edges  and 
Gilt  Top,  $4  00. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN  and  His  Adminis- 
tration. By  Lucius  E.  CHITTENDEN,  his  Register  of  the  Treasury. 
With  Portrait.  Svo,  Cloth,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Top,  $2  50;  Half 
Calf,  $4  75. 


University  o     ao 
SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY 

^ 
from  which  it  was  borro 


